


They thought us crazy, but all we did was dream

by kiyo_k



Series: Crazily Dreaming [1]
Category: Inception (2010), PsyCop Series - Jordan Castillo Price
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, F/M, M/M, Misunderstandings, Psycop - Freeform, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyo_k/pseuds/kiyo_k
Summary: Once upon a time if you told doctors you heard voices, they'd diagnose you as schizophrenic, put you on heavy drugs, and lock you away in a cozy state institution to keep you from hurting yourself or others. Nowadays they test you first to see if you're psychic - Psycop, Jordan Castillo priceEames does not hear voices. Thank goodness.The psycop au that came out of a sleepless night. Warning: Not beta-ed & I am bad at tenses and titles. Tag as I write





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really shouldn't start a new writing project while another's ongoing. But I have to get this out of my system before the plots fades. So this will be a short one. Most likely less than 30,000 words. I have the next three months free, i think i can write quite a fair bit in this time. 
> 
> the first paragraph is from PsyCop by Jordan Castillo Price. It's a great series and a fun read.
> 
> Some notes:  
> FPMP - Federal Psychic Monitoring Program  
> Psych - people with psychic abilities  
> Stiff - non-psychic, who usually pair up with Psych in investigative field work  
> References made to Victor Bayne from the PsyCop Series, a high level medium who can see and talk to spirits. Also mentioned from the PsyCop Series, Jacob Marks, Bayne's partner

Once upon a time if you told doctors you heard voices, they'd diagnose you as schizophrenic, put you on heavy drugs, and lock you away in a cozy state institution to keep you from hurting yourself or others. Nowadays they test you first to see if you're psychic.

Eames does not hear voices. Thank goodness. He’s heard of Marie Saint Savon of course. Most people had. Good old Marie who tested at a record level seven. She had once been the world’s most powerful medium. Someone who can hear the voices of your dead relatives. The poster child, or freaky old lady depending on who you ask, for Psychs - people with unexplainable talents that goes way beyond being good at football or piano. People like Eames.

Not that Eames had dead spirits speak to him before. Nothing so dramatic like that kid in that movie with Bruce Willis. What he has is something milder, something along the lines of those so call gut feels. Like how some women always know when you are cheating on them, or how some teachers and parents can always smell your bullshit from miles away. That kind of intuition. Or hunches, as Eames likes to call them.

He has no idea when his ‘talent’ manifested, only that it did. And when Eames was a toddler, his family had narrowly escaped an attack on the tube, simply because he had thrown a bad tantrum on the circle line platform, bawling his eyes out and adamantly refused to board that particular train at that particular time. When news broke later of the attack, his parents had looked at him with something akin to awe. He was too young back then to remember the incident. But his mom never forgets. She talked about it, not often, and only after a couple of scotch, when the fleeting sense of euphoria from the liquor was sharp enough to dull the ache.

They had thought themselves plain lucky, she would say. But they had thought wrong. If only they knew then what Eames had been capable of, his father would have skipped work to comfort a wailing five year old and not got caught up in that thirty car highway pile up two weeks away from Christmas.

She had learnt better since. And when Eames mentioned off-handedly a few years older and more eloquent than a toddler, that the job in the States sounds good, she had sold the house, packed them up and left without a second glance. Hurrying, as if to shake the shadows nipping at her heels. Sometimes one does not need to hear voices to hear the echoes.

When Eames turned fifteen. His mom returned from office with a flyer for Heliotrope station. _Test your Psyche!_ The words read in neon pink. Eames took one look at it, promptly crushed it in his hand and tossed it in the bin like the trash it was. When he looked up, his mom was looking at him questioningly, one perfectly trimmed eyebrow arched.

“Feels wrong,” he shrugged. And there’s that. End of the conversation.

It’s only till years later that Eames realizes he had dodged a bullet that day. The people who have been to Heliotrope, and who were lucky enough to leave, had a more appropriate name for their experiences. Camp Hell, they say. And Eames did not ask why.

So Eames can’t hear voices. What he has is merely good intuition. And if those intuition surpasses those of an average Joe or Jane and never fails to tip the scales in his favor. Who’s to judge?

Certainly not the suit screaming at him.

“Inheritance fraud.” The suit says as he slaps the dossier, _Eames’ dossier_ , on the metallic desk with a thud, presses his palms on the desk edges and breath hotly at Eames, face scrunched up like a pitbull. The dramatic display only serves to flame the beginnings of a headache throbbing at the back of Eames’ eyes since he was brought into the room. Of all things he had purportedly done, Eames did not once think that inheritance fraud will be the deed that brought him once more to the attention of the Feds.

For one, Eames had done no such shit. As unscrupulous as he may have been in the past, Eames would never stoop so low as to take advantage of elderlies. People who steal from the old, the young and the vulnerable are the scumbags of the scums. No question. And second, cons and forgeries? Eames is no Debbie Ocean.

Sure, he had done a couple of stupid stuff back when he was in a bad place, and was desperate enough to turn to the mobs for any jobs that would put food on his table and a roof over his head. But he had been clean for years. Had got out when he skipped a meetup one evening for no good reason, and saw on the telly next morning that his gang was busted. And not in a good way either. It was bullets to faces, and all out dead, a shoot out at that joint where Eames should have been at. He took being alive as a sign as good as any, for him to kick that life for good. Nowadays, the only excitement he gets is when the president tweets, and the market goes batshit crazy.

Day trading is boring, but at least the money is squeaky clean.

So inheritance fraud. That’s not his style. Not any longer.

It was simply a hunch when he spotted Caroline knitting by the corner of the coffee shop which Eames had taken to frequent. Caroline had looked like she needed a listening ear, and Eames was all up for being that ear. There’s really nothing much to do other than hitting the gym, once the market closes. So he walked over with a cup of tea and pie, and they talked. Over teas. Over their love for paintings. And debated occasionally over modern or renaissance. It became a routine. Every friday, three pm. And if Caroline had asked for a favor once or twice for Eames to fix broken pipes, or take a look over her ratty car that has been spewing oil, who’s Eames to say no to an old lady with a weak knee and lived alone in that hollow of her house.

He had reminded her of her husband, she said once. _British?_ He asked. _Charming,_ she laughed. _Even in those god-damned awful shirts._

Eames doesn’t have many mates. Most have dropped out of his life, or more likely he had dropped out of theirs. But Caroline was a friend. So when she missed their next tea session, Eames looked through the obituaries and found the address. He put on his most hideous shirt, threw a black jacket over it, and turned up at the funeral with a handful of sunflowers. It was only apt to say farewell to a lady with her favorite flowers.

Not once in their short acquaintance was Eames even aware that Caroline had been the proprietor of some very expensive, and very sought-after paintings. Not until her lawyer pulled him aside and asked if he’s one Mr C. Eames, did Eames realize that she had willed her paintings to him. All of them. Alongside the money to go for their upkeep. Eames had looked up then to see a haggard woman walking his way, mouth pressed in a hard unpleasant line. There was some resemblance his addled brain noted, but in all the ways that his friend was gentle, her sister was all edges.

Estranged or not, Caroline’s sister made it clear that blood’s still thicker than water. And those paintings should have been for family, not a noob like Eames. A swindler taking advantage of a lonely widow. There will be investigations, she shrilled. And there’s that. Life is sometimes more ridiculous than fiction.

Honestly, Eames thinks this investigation will fall flat. His own lawyer had went through the papers, and pronounced the transfer of asset as indisputable. If Caroline’s sister had asked so very nicely and had shed tears over her passing instead of the money, Eames would have passed up on the paintings. God knows he doesn’t need the money. But as circumstances stand, he will most likely keep them out of spite. That, and the Matisse in the collection has just that right touch of whimsical that he very much favours.

So the suit can scream all he like. Eames won’t buckle. But he’s not in a hurry for his lawyer to bail him out either. He has this feeling that something very interesting is about transpire, and whatever that is, it will more than make up for this very uncomfortable interrogation.

Call it a hunch.

Then an Asian man saunters in without knocking.

“Who are you?” Suit asks with a snap of his head at the door.

“Saito,” the man smiles, crow’s feet crinkling on the corner of his eyes. “I will be taking over this investigation. It would be nice if you can leave us alone for a while. I have much to discuss with Mr Eames here.”

The suit frowned, scratching his chin contemplatively, before giving a nod to Saito and walking straight out the door. _WHAT THE FUCK?_ Suit had been hounding Eames all morning, and now some kind of big shot came, and the man just up and go? It’s Eames turn to frown as Saito took the seat across from him, cross his legs and clasp his hands before him, as relaxed as a cat in the sun, but eyes twinkling like one with a canary.

Saito spoke first.

“Mr Eames, I have looked through your files, and I have to admit you have built quite an impressive resume.”

Eames only had that one stint as a barista back in highschool. Whatever resume Saito’s talking about, it sure ain’t about jobs.

“Look, if this is about…”

“Mr Eames, ten years ago you found a Picasso in an abandoned warehouse.” Of course, it’s about that painting. The one that sort of turned his life around. For all the trouble that painting had rained upon him later, Eames never once regretted wandering into that dilapidated looking concrete structure that one day.

“I did,” He admits. The Picasso had been a stolen piece from the private collection of some Saudi Arabian prince, and at the behest of its owner, the circumstances of its return had all been very hushed hushed and out of the press. But the Feds have the whole record, the whole spiel on how Eames came across it, it’s all recorded in his dossier. Nothing to hide.

“I returned it.”

“For a very tidy sum of reward.”

“Five hundred grand.” And Saito whistles.

“It’s all very fortuitous isn’t it? To find it in some random shelter, on a piece of land last owned by a dead man. No one else to share the rewards with.”

“Didn’t some guy found a Tamayo in the trash a while back? It’s like a trend nowadays. You should go hunting sometimes. Never know when you could find a Ming vase in some flea market.” Eames suggests with a shrug.

“I don’t think so,” Saito says. “I don’t have the luck. Unlike you.” He levels his eyes on Eames. “A year later, you made a bet against Cobol, three days before they announced their bankruptcy. That brought you what? Another hundred grand?”

“Three hundred.”

Eames had just started managing his own portfolio back then. Six months of simple trading, buying and selling, but one wayward glance at Cobol Engineering on the stock exchange one day had him shorting ten thousand shares the next moment. The next three days was just absolute terror as Eames tracked the progress of the stock, petrified that he’d just lost his financial blanket through one stupid trade. But the stock crashed on day four, and Eames breathed easier. Instead, it’s the Fed that started breathing down his neck.

Insider trading wasn’t even a term Eames had known about at that time. He's just some bloke who owns a laptop and a brokerage account, and had change to spare. The Feds went through his phones, his emails, his coffee run schedule. They found nothing. Not even a morsel.

 _Because there’s nothing to be found_ , Eames threw his arms up and proclaimed on the tenth day of the interrogation. The lead investigator did not believe him. Had given Eames the stink eye, as he grudging released him and conceded that perhaps Eames was just that lucky. But right before Eames left with his lawyer, the investigator grabbed him and whispered into his ear. _One day,_ he cautioned. _One day your luck’s going to run out. You will make a mistake, leave a trail so huge we can see it from space and that’s when we will get you._

So Eames adapts. He starts placing smaller bets. They never brought him in again, but it seems they never did stop tracking him.

“Fisher- Morrow, Proclus…” Saito lists with a show of his fingers. “Seems like when something big goes down with companies, you are always there to profit.”

“I am a day trader. It’s my job.”

“An appropriate use of your talent. No doubt,” Saito says appreciatively. “But I am sure that your talents can be put to better use than chasing down more money which you have no need for.”

Eames raises an inquiring eyebrow and Saito grins.

“Let’s just say we took the liberty to check through your funds. You have set aside a very nice nest egg over the years. Very clean. And I must thank you for your due diligence in paying your taxes. Helps in the upkeep for my office and my agents.”

“And which agency is that?”

“The FPMP.”

 _Oh boy_. Eames had thought the CIA. Everyone is accusing everyone else of some conspiracies these days. But the FPMP? That’s a whole different circus of freaks. When Eames first heard about it, he’d dismissed it as some kind of urban legend. But it's real, and it seems like they have it out for him.

“Never heard of it,” he croaked, careful to keep the waver off his voice.

“Fair enough. We don’t really publicize our services. Let’s just say we are an agency who specializes in harnessing people with very special talent like yours.”

“You mean my talent for groundbreaking fashion choices?” Eames deflects weakly, but Saito is all zen. “You know which talent I am referring to. Think about it. There’s so much more good you could do with the gift you have.”

“And good doesn’t pay off very much innit? Mr Saito, I don’t get what you are selling here. But I don’t think I’ll buy.”

That’s when Saito tsks and laughs, as if he’s in with an inside joke, and Eames is out. In fact Eames is starting to think that he might be the Joke.

“That’s where you are wrong.” Saito says with a bare of his teeth. “Just like you have your talent, Mr Eames, I have mine. I think like most people, you will find me very persuasive.”

Somehow, the meeting ended with Eames clasping Saito’s hand in a firm handshake and agreeing to perhaps one of the craziest deal ever, and that's counting that one time in Mombasa. Sure there’s this nagging feeling at the back of his spine that Eames had been short changed out of something really, but at the same time, something had felt very right. Very, very right.

And there’s that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild description on suicide/ Prejudice as a characterization, because humans are flawed, and we all have our own demons to work through. It gets better. People just need time and help to work things out.
> 
> btw FPMP = Federal Psychic Monitoring Program

Once upon a time if you told doctors you heard voices, they'd diagnose you as schizophrenic, put you on heavy drugs, and lock you away in a cozy state institution to keep you from hurting yourself or others. Nowadays they test you first to see if you're psychic.

Still, Arthur is of the opinion that it’s best to consult a psychiatrist first. Sometimes when people hear voices, they are really on the track to insanity.

That statement may sound crude, insensitive, and downright prejudiced against people with mental health challenges. But Arthur is never one to use decorative words, never sees a problem calling a pot, a pot. If these people are hearing imaginary voices, Arthur thinks they need real professional help. Someone who can get them the support through bad phrases in their lives, or some medication to help them with the off balancing of their brain hormones.

What these people don’t need are assholes who feed them even more bullshit and even more fanatical ideas to fuel their troubled minds.

Arthur can’t remember when these so call Psychs appears. Just that they did. People with special talents, people like Marie Saint Savon whose legendary seances were as otherworldly as her name and much televised in the States.

Thinking back, that might have been it.

Those seances had sparked a nationwide interest for kids to have their Psyches tested. Arthur know the stats of course. Thirty percent of the world’s population. Thirty percent chance that your kid is more special than the remaining seventy percent of the world. Never mind that most people amongst that thirty, only ever tested as empath one. Never mind that everyone knows that test is a fluke. After all being somewhat emphatic is a survival skill in the human social context. If Arthur ever bothered to get himself tested, he had no doubt that he could have been an empath too.

But Arthur knows full well that he’s no empath. Had he really been one, he would not have the experience of returning home from school one day to find his baby sister screaming her lungs out from her cot upstairs and his mom’s feet swinging, and swinging a short distance above the ground, a noose around her neck. _Postpartum depression,_ the cops hypothesized as Arthur listened numbly.

Their neighbour then had been an empath one. That lady at the grocery store they frequent is an empath two. A fat load of empathic good they did, didn’t they? Had those people sense a shit in their entire life, they would have known that Arthur’s mom needed help. Okay. Arthur admits that might have been the source of his prejudice against the Psychs. But to be fair, he was trying to cope with sorrow back then, and those sentiments had come from the bitter mind of a teenager.

That very same year, Arthur enrolled in West Point. And boy is Arthur glad he never had the makings of a Psych. Had he been able to see ghosts, he’s pretty sure that he would be downright useless on the field. Pretty sure that his vision would have been fully clouded by swarms of them. So, Arthur is part of the seventy percent normal, and he’s never been happier.

Sometimes though, sometimes through the corner of his eyes, he would see disembodied legs, swinging and swinging above the ground, right before he jolts himself awake.

Turns out, you don’t have to see ghosts to run from one.

Years later, he took a bullet to his thigh and ended up in hospital back home. There were hardly any damages. But his kid sister’s crying face had him feeling guilty all over. So he took the injury as a sign and left, thinking perhaps that he could give it a go at the CIA. He's pretty sure they need the manpower, what’s with everyone sprouting some conspiracy bullshit every now and then.

The interview with the FPMP wasn’t meant to count. He was just being thorough when he sent his application to all federal bureau, hell, he had even sent one to his precinct. But FPMP was the first to offer an interview, and Arthur wasn’t about to pass up the chance for an interview practice. How bad could it be? He had thought. There. Famous last words.

The office had looked inconspicuous. Plain, clean and modern. All sleek lines and lots of white. No one would ever have thought of it as the headquarter for the freaks. Arthur had put on his best suit so perfectly tailored that the fabric hugged his form like a glove, and strided down the corridor. He passed by a woman who gave him a once over and spoke sultrily with a French accented voice.

“I have seen you in my dreams.”

And Arthur thought that the most blatant pick up line he has ever heard. Something of the weirdness he felt must have seeped into his expression, for the woman only rolled her eyes and laughed. “This isn’t a meet-cute if that’s what you’re thinking.” She said between laughter but offered no further explanation.

“You will see,” she sashayed away with a parting wink.

That was weird, but the interview was weirder. In short, his interviewer, guy by the name of Saito had entered the room he’s in and had asked right away when Arthur could start.

“Isn’t it protocol to first interview your candidates?” he asked, knowing full well that it could come across as insubordination to some high rank big shot.

“Not for special cases such as yours. Mal has seen you in her dreams. That’s all the reference we need.”

Arthur’s first question then was, _who’s Mal?_

He would learn shortly later, that Mallorie Miles, the woman he had met on his way to the interview, is a precog level five. And that’s as close to god as a mortal can get.

Miles can see the future.

Not in a crystal ball or in the patterns of tea leaves like that charlatan in Harry Potter. “In dreams,” she said blowing a ring of smoke from her cigarette. That’s how she knew that Arthur would fit right in with the FPMP. They had been interacting in her dreams.

When Arthur asked her what the next PowerBall numbers would be, she wheezed and laughed in tiny fits, and Arthur thinks he likes her. “I can’t control what I dream,” she sighed, eyes glazing over. “It comes and goes and sometimes I think this is one big dream that I can’t wake myself from. But as long as we are in my dream, call me Mal.” And she left it at that with a pat on his cheek.

Arthur had no idea why he took the job that day. For all the posturing that he did, Saito was pissed poor in selling the deal and Arthur remains unconvinced that being the non-psychic half of any pair in this agency can help make the world a better place. It might have been out of spite that made him signed his name on the contract. He will be the Scully to their Mulder, he tells himself.

Seeing the Psych in action should have convinced the most unyielding skeptic. But Arthur is a hard-headed foot soldier. And he wonders still. Mal may have been able to predict the future, but the thing about precog is, there’s always this argument over the egg and the chicken. Did Mal dream of Arthur because fate decreed that Arthur will be working for the FPMP. Or was Arthur hired because Mal said she had dreamt about him, thereby rendering this whole thing into a mind fuck and a self fulfilling prophecy. He end that line of thought eventually, for he can’t imagine the world they see. Arthur is in the other seventy percent of the world. Theirs is not the world he could ever comprehend.  

So he takes his work in stride, as all professionals do. Mal sees the future in her dreams. Bayne talks to ghosts, and Ariadne answers true false questions without ever knowing the context. What Arthur will be, is the voice of reason when Mal sinks too deep into her dreams, and when Ariadne runs way off the rails with her line of questionings. Bayne… Hell, that’s Jacob’s problem, not his.

Maybe the FPMP is the real deal. Not those TV personalities on reality show that ‘feels’ a chill in yet another abandoned house. But when Arthur first saw Eames, he had no doubt that this smarmy looking man is nothing but a fraudster.

And it’s just Arthur’s luck to be assigned as the Stiff to Eames’ Psych.

 

* * *

 

“Where are we going again, love?” Eames asks as he slides smoothly into the passenger seat, hands Arthur his coffee and takes a chug of his own, grimacing as the bitterness hits the back of his throat.

Eames is usually one for tea. But he had woken up this morning all fatigue and jittery, and had thought perhaps the drink might help mellow his nerves. God knows coffee always does wonders to improve his partner’s mood.

 _Arthur’s mood._ He reminds himself ruefully. Whatever interaction they had going for the past few months certainly never felt anywhere close to a partnership.

Eames is the Psych. Arthur is the Stiff. And Eames thought their roles fit right down to the T. Right down to their personalities even. Arthur is as stiff as a stick in the mud. The non-psychic guy in their two-man investigation unit, who’s immune to psychic interference and thereby responsible for questioning and doubting any suggestion and deduction Eames has ever come up with.

While Arthur had took to his work splendidly, playing very much the devil’s advocate to discredit Eames’ construct of a case. Eames sincerely wishes that man could employ much less condescension and derision when he jibes at yet another one of Eames’ hunches.

They had sized each other up the very first moment they met, or at least Eames did. Arthur in his three piece, him in his paisley. It should have been obvious to another then, that the two of them are as different as they come. But no, not to Saito, who patted them both on their shoulders and announced them as partners. He thinks they will work great together. But the frown on Arthur’s face said otherwise.

Surprisingly, their clearance rate agrees. With Saito that is. Not Arthur.

Arthur is all meticulous research and cross referencing evidences, always scribbling furiously in that moleskin of his. Eames, meanwhile, just takes a look at the list of persons of interest, randomly pinpoint some of them, and deploys his British accent to butter them all up.

They never talk about how they should work together. Arthur barely even cares how Eames’ talent works. _Hunches,_ the Stiff had repeated dryly the first time Eames brought it up. He then gave Eames the most cynical of all cynic looks which conveyed enough. _Great. A non-believer,_ Eames had chirped.   

Still, between the both of them, they somehow managed. The pay is shit compared to Eames’ previous stint. But it’s not like he needs the money anyway. Especially not if he gets to see Arthur’s confused look every time Eames magicked up yet another important lead that helps them to crack a case. “Luck. Pure luck, dear.” Eames will say when he hands over his ‘hard’ work for that case, and Arthur gives him that frowny frown that scrunches his eyebrows together and puffed up his cheeks. Eames shouldn’t have found that endearing, but he does. And plus side? Going on long road trips. Bringing down white collar crimes. It’s like Supernatural, federal style. It’s kind of fun actually, working away from his laptop.

“Crime scene. Dead body found in dark alleyway.”

“Mugging gone wrong?” Eames postulates. “Any reason why they call us in?”

The FPMP ain’t exactly the standard enforcers to be brought in for hit and run cases. In fact most states would prefer them out, instead of in. Word’s around that the FPMP does good work, but calling them means bringing their whole freakishness to town as well. Eames find that observation insulting. He and Ariadne are normal functioning, capable adults. It’s really just Victor and Mal who amp up their crazy rep.

“It’s the fourth body in a row. They think they are seeing some sort of patterns, something occult related but no clues. The DA thinks there’s a serial killer at work, and she wants answers before the media whips the public into a frenzy.”

“Homicide is Victor’s expertise.”

“If you think you can get Agent Marks to cut their very well deserved vacation short, be my guest and call him,” Arthur dares.   

No, Eames don’t think he will do that. Victor may see spirits, but his beau is the real scary one who can likely crush Eames’ neck with his bare hands. Not that Marks would do that of course. Chap’s a jolly fellow. But there must be something off with that man’s psych, to shack up with someone like Victor Bayne. That, and some nerves of steel.

The alley is crawling with CSI when they arrive. There’s no body. Just a chalk mark on the ground, and for that Eames is grateful. He knows there’s only so many white collar crime in the States and the count has been getting fewer with every case he and Arthur work. But Eames didn’t think he would branch out so early in the game. Maybe he should have made that call.

Arthur points at the lead detective up ahead and signals for Eames to follow. _Spook squad,_ some guy whispers and Eames could all but imagine the theme song of Ghostbusters blaring in the background as they make their way.

“Agents,” the detective addressed them flatly, and after introductions, gave a very quick and brief rundown of what the case. It’s very clear to Eames that the spooks are not welcomed here. Especially those from the FPMP.

Psychs who rank high enough to employ their talents to police work was rare back when Paranormal Investigations first started. But better training had made them more common. And it isn’t that rare anymore to assign most precinct with an empath or two. But everyone knows that the best of the best, or some say, the freakiest of the freaks work for the Federal Program.

“You will get the files of course. But I think you may want to take a look at the body first.” The detective says, and Eames does a double take.

“It’s here? The body?”

The question seems to have made the man uncomfortable, and he squirms under Arthur’s gaze.

“I know this may interfere with your…” He makes some gesture in the air, which Eames takes to mean for psychic-ness. “But we can’t leave her out there for the paparazzi. It’s…”

The detective stumbles over finding the appropriate words before sighing tiredly, “Let’s just say the perp had done some sick work on that girl. We have her bagged up in the ambulance. It’s just right over there. If she’s still around, and I think she will be, you will find her.”

“What do you mean?” Eames asks. But the detective just gives him a look, and the realization hits Eames like a brick. Oh shit. They thought Eames is Bayne.

Arthur says nothing, although Eames is sure he has come to the same conclusion. The man just walks right up to the ambulance, with Eames trotting along behind. There’s someone standing guard by the ambulance, but he opens the door when they flash him their badges.

There’s a black body bag in it.

Eames feels the bottom of his stomach seizes, his hands and forehead clammy with cold sweat.

And right before his mind goes blank, he thinks, _fucking shit._


	3. Chapter 3

 

After he had hung up that call with Saito on their latest assignment, Arthur had spent the next few minutes staring into his phone, trying to recall what little he knows of serial killings. He gave up after five and called Eames instead.

Despite months of working together, Arthur still can’t quite understand how he got saddled with driving duties. Eames had said something about left and right hand traffic, which Arthur knows is utter bullshit. That man had been living in the States for years. 

Still, as Arthur glances back at the crime scene from where they’re at, he loathes to admit that Eames is probably right. Bayne would have been much better equipped to handle this.

Before his stint with the FPMP, Agent Bayne’d been in the academy and then CPD homicide. In comparison, Arthur’s own background swing towards the military. While he had seen his fair share of deaths, the circumstances had been quite different. Wars may have been mass murders, but homicides are personal.

Eames has not budge from his position by the ambulance’s door, and Arthur leaves him be. Other than some mentions of delinquent activities in his youth, there’s nothing else in Eames’ file to suggest anything more than petty cons and forgeries. The Psych is civilian through and through, and it’s highly unlikely that he is acquainted with seeing dead bodies. Eames may need time to ease into this case, and Arthur understands.

Snapping on a pair of disposable gloves, he climbs onto the ambulance alone.

The body bag sits atop the stretcher. There’s no obvious stench yet, so the corpse’s likely fresh. Out in the fields, between the heat and the humidity, the smell usually kicks in within a day. But here in the States and in the current weather, Arthur has no clue how long it’s been. He puts it at twenty-four hour give or take. Not that it matters how close his guess has been, the autopsy report will be what goes into the case file.

He unzips the body bag, revealing the face of a young woman. Early twenties likely. A Jane Doe for now, until the police can find something in the background checks or on the database of missing persons reports. Her eyes are closed and her face is clean. She looks peaceful, like she’s asleep. Not twisted. Not covered in plasters and blood. Arthur blinks the imageries away and wonders if Jane Doe’s condition is the norm for victims outside of war.

Arthur pulls the zip lower, recalling too late the detective’s words.

 _Sick_ must have been the understatement of the year.

The victim’s been bisected. A wide gash which starts from the base of her throat, and ventures down as Arthur slides the zip further. Her ribcage had been pulled open and her innards emptied, leaving only an open cavity in her torso. Everything has been pared out, no lungs, no guts, no liver, and no heart. Like a hunk of meat at the butcher stands.

Arthur slips the bag close. He’d seen enough. _No_ , he thinks. Eames does not need to see this. Even as battle hardened as Arthur has been, he can feel the bile swirling in his guts, leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth as the zip snaps shut. They can wait for the post mortem report.

Eames’ still standing by the door when Arthur turns around and throws the gloves in the nearest bin. Arthur has not made any effort to shield the body and he wonders if the man had caught a glimpse. Even then, Arthur supposes retching will be the first reflex. Instead, Eames is uncharacteristically quiet

“You okay?” Arthur asks with a frown.

First crime scene or not, Arthur does not think the pressure will get to Eames’ head.  It doesn’t matter which case they’re on, Eames slides into his role, whatever that is, like second skin, and plays the part they need. Flirt, interrogate, intimidate, Arthur had seen Eames done all three with practiced ease, and then promptly shakes the character off once he leaves the room. The man has always been flippant and slippery and hard to pin. In a homicide like this, Arthur half expects the man to make his round through the techies, asking strange questions and pointing out objects which ends up having the perp’s print. Eames’ has the devil’s luck and he knows it, and from what Arthur had observed, the man’s confident that his luck can get him out of any shit.

Which is why Arthur knows it’s bad when he takes a step forward, and notices just then, Eames’ stricken face.

The man’s petrified.

“What’s wrong?” Again, no response. Arthur cradles Eames’ jaw hesitatingly then and tilts his face to the light. His pupils are blown wide and, that gives Arthur the confirmation he needs. Eames has fallen into limbo.

 

* * *

 

 

All recruits have been given the talk. The talk about how psychics toe the line between wakefulness and insanity. How it’s possible for their talents to bring them so deep that they drag them right off the far edge. _Every Psych has their own triggers,_ his handbook had read. _And one never knows whether they will kick in when out in the fields. If that happens, when it happens, then it’s all down to the Stiff to pull them out._  

Arthur knows that Mal, for one, often wakes from her dreams disoriented and frenzied. That she’s now allowed only an hour of monitored dreaming, and then medicated to keep the dreams away. But until this moment, Arthur didn’t think he would ever face the need to pull Eames out of limbo.

“Eames,” he says slowly. “Eames, look at me.”

There’s a slight movement in Eames’ eyes which Arthur takes to be a good sign. “Good. Focus on me. Listen to my voice,” he presses gently and rests a thumb behind Eames’ ear, tracing out imaginary circles in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “That’s right, breathe.” And that seems to do the trick. Eames lurches forward, heaving in short stuttering breaths, as if he’s just woken from a nightmare.

“Darling,” he gasps as wild eyes finally focus on Arthur.

Arthur dreads for a moment that the man had felt him flinch. He pulls his hands away but Eames seizes his wrists and leans into him.

“We should leave,” the Psych wheezes out of clenched teeth.

“Right now? We’ve barely arrived?”

 “Please.”

And that settles it.

Another time perhaps, Arthur would have make a snide remark on how he had thought Eames above begging for anything in his life. But the day’s already been too stretched, too disconcerting. And having just pulled Eames out of limbo, Arthur doesn’t want his partner to slip right back in.

“Can you walk to the car, or do I have to carry you?” He tries for a light-hearted barb.

The smile Eames rewards him with almost makes him falter.

 

* * *

 

Arthur checks them into a hotel that toe the upper limit of their budget. Given how the day has been, he doesn’t feel like setting camp in dingy motels with their non-existent security. If he’s being entirely honest, the state of the victim and Eames’ near breakdown at the crime scene unnerves him. 

For all it’s worth, at least the elevator leading up to their floor requires a card key.

Eames’ still looking worse for wear when they walk through the door and Arthur lets him have the first shower. He turns his attention to his laptop instead.

Before they left, he’d asked for electronic copies of the reports to be sent to his work account. The detective had shot him a peevish look, which Arthur ignored. The one thing crime shows gets right is the sheer amount of paperwork Policing involves. Forensic reports. Witnesses’ interviews. Just lots of paper, which Arthur has absolutely no desire to trudge around with. So what if the precinct would have to get some guy to scan the documents. Arthur would prefer his copy in electronic format. He’s all about saving the environment for his kid sister.

There’s no file in his inbox yet, which is predictable. And he takes the time to sift through the net and the database. He’s halfway through the _Psychological Profiling of Serial Killers_ when Eames steps out of shower, hair dripping wet, with a towel wrapped around his waist. And Arthur’s eyebrows shot up.

They have shared room before. But so far, Eames has been polite enough to keep all that skin and tattoos hidden under shirt and sweats, probably to avoid offending Arthur’s good sensibility.

The man’s body is… he’s… Yeah, it’s downright offensive, that’s it.

Arthur doesn’t get it. He’s the one who’s been to the army while Eames lounges in front of a laptop. Yet somehow Arthur still ends up with half the muscle mass that man has.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Eames asks with mirth, “See something you like?” 

“You are dripping over the carpets,” Arthur scowls, hoping he’d pass for condescension, but judging by the amused look on Eames’ face, Arthur’s not selling it. “Why are you in a towel again, Mr Eames?”

“Forgot my pjs,” the man smirks as he pulls two small bundles out from his duffle, wave them in Arthur’s direction before rolling them out on the sheets. As Eames reaches for the knot around his waist, he makes sure to throw Arthur a wink. Arthur could not have avert his eyes faster when the towel hits the floor.

There’s a pop-up on his screen, and he clicks on it immediately, glad for a distraction. It’s an email from the detective with a number of files attached, all carefully labelled. Arthur clicks on the case brief. A document opens, showing what seems like detailed records of each victims.

A hand comes to rest beside his. Arthur feels a droplet of water falls on his neck and a whisper of breath ghosting over the tip of his ears. He barely manages to resist a shiver. Behind him, the bulk of Eames’ figure casts a shadow on the screen as the man leans in to peer over Arthur’s shoulder.

“So what presents did the kind detective send us?” Eames asks as Arthur slams his laptop shut. “I don’t think you should look at them,” he says. 

“Why’s that so?”

“There are pictures of the victims’ wounds.” He doesn’t add that those wounds tend more towards mutilations, but he thinks Eames got the picture.

“And you think I can’t handle it?” There’s a tightness to Eames’ voice, Arthur observes and he turns to consider the Psych. The man’s face betrays little.

“You fell into limbo at the crime scene today.”

“I got out.”

“Not on your own,” says Arthur. “Per protocol, it’s the imperative of the Stiffs to remove and distant all triggers that may potentially endanger their partners.”

“Oh so now we are partners?” For some reason, Eames sounds annoyed and Arthur has no idea why. Sure their partnership had kicked off on a rocky start, but Arthur thinks that their work thus far weren’t so bad as to warrant Eames’ grievance. Their clearance rate had been a hundred percent after all.

In fact, of the two of them, Arthur thinks he’s the one who’s got the short end of the stick. Does Eames even know how depressing it is, for Arthur to spend five hour trawling through researches and databases, only for Eames to get the same lead in a ten minutes flirting session with the secretariats? And then be subjected to some smartass remarks, when Eames present his leads?

Still Arthur makes do, because between them both, they always get their perp. And for that, Arthur’s willing to ignore the means. Psychic or not.

“We are,” he says firmly. That’s it. And he dares Eames to say otherwise.

The man goes silent as he stares at Arthur contemplatively, as if Arthur has just sprouted some crazy revelation when all he’d done was assert a fact. Eventually Eames sighs deflated, and rubs both eyes with the balls of his palms. “It’s not the body,” he says.  

“What?”

“I watched Hannibal,” Eames explains. “All three seasons of it. I don’t think a gruesome corpse is what kicked me off the ledge.”

He shifts his stance and gazes straight into Arthur’s eyes, “When you were out in the fields, do you ever get this feeling sometimes, that something doesn’t sit quite right. And you just want to run away?” 

Arthur frowns.

“That’s how I felt when I saw that bag. It’s overwhelming. That feeling. It’s like there’s something screaming for me to back away and get the hell out. That I just.need.to.leave.” His throat bobs, swallowing between words. “And I can’t blank it out, and that… That’s what threw me into limbo.”

He’s spooked, Arthur realizes then as he stares at the darkness in the man’s eyes. Whatever Eames felt out there, it had scared him. And now the man’s trying to explain to Arthur, to confess that he’s afraid. And Arthur… Arthur does not know what to do with this information that he’s just been handed. The Eames he knows is cocksure and confident. But this Eames? This vulnerability? Arthur just does not know. 

So he goes for the obvious.

“I can call Saito,” he says. “If you think we should leave, we can leave. We don’t have to work this case. Saito can get someone else to come in.”

“You trust me?” Eames asks, sounding far too surprised that Arthur had listened and not waved his concerns off. Arthur merely shrugs, “You’re the one who’s always going on about trusting our instincts. If that’s what they are telling you now. Then we should leave.”

He reaches for his phone but Eames grabs his hand and holds it still.

“No, I don’t think we should leave.” He says, and now Arthur’s confused. “Are you saying we shouldn’t leave? I was there with you at the scene, I saw how you reacted. Whatever’s giving you that feeling you had, I can tell it’s bad.”

“It is,” Eames nods numbly. “Which is why we can both agree to not let either Mal or Ariadne anywhere near this. I don’t want them getting mixed up in this.”

Arthur admits that he had not considered their replacement although he’s pretty sure that if they were to back out now, Saito will call in Bayne. Eames seems to see right through his thoughts.

“No, it won’t be Victor. His talent is too rare. The FPMP’s too scared to lose him. The honchos would never agree to send him to a case which will compromise his safety. So it’s down to us, either that or the ladies.”

It’s a flawless argument, and Arthur is impressed. This side of Eames, not many people knows of. Most people see his shirt and his frivolity and immediately dismisses him. But sometimes, the man will make an observation so brilliant that Arthur wonders how badly off-mark he had misjudged the man when they’d first met

“I know you have your reservations about me,” the man’s still speaking. “But you’ve our records, you know what we can do. Compared to the ladies, I know when to cut and run. But them. They  won’t know what hit them until it’s too late! We are not going to hand this case over to them.”

“Fine. We’ll stay.” he says and snaps open his laptop.

“Listen… Wait, come again?” Eames’ eyes boggle and he looks at Arthur mouth agapes. Arthur is tempted to look in the mirror to see if he had somehow sprouted wings to even warrant such a response.

“I said, you’re right and I have just send you the files. You ask for them, you read through them. Have I made myself clear, Mr Eames?”

Eames just nods dumbfoundedly.

It’s not often that Arthur gets to be the one who pulled the carpet out under the other’s feet. As he relishes in that small victory, he can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i haven't read the latest PsyCop book yet, and i don't really know what the FPMP does. For simplicity let's just assume that in this fic, the program sends the agents to wherever they are requested. 
> 
> And Limbo is of course a term that came from inception. Not PsyCop. In the books, the protagonist suffers from panic attacks, but doesn't really have an issue of controlling his talent. (spoiler: except for that one episode)


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of alarm wakes Eames. There’s a glint of light through the split between the curtains, shining right in his eyes. He blinks blearily and shifts to bury his face into the pillow with a groan. When the alarm crescendos, he finally sits up and shuts it off.

The bed next to his is empty and made. Nothing out of the ordinary. Arthur’s an early riser, who always makes his bed - hotel or not, and then on top of everything else, goes for an early run. All habits which Eames has absolutely no desire and no ability to imitate. He sweeps the duvet off haphazardly, and zombies into his morning routine.

They had spend the better part of the night reading through the files. When the words had started to string together in lines of gibberish, Eames had called it a night, and flopped onto his bed, preferring instead to turn his attention to Arthur. The man has not even lose his tie the entire time, just his jacket, as he scribbles yet again in that moleskin of his, frowning in deep concentration. After all that gore Eames had seen in the reports, it’s a sight for sore eyes. And he fell asleep with the imprint of the man’s profile at the back of his mind.

The telly’s is on when he’s out of the bathroom. There’s a cup of tea waiting for him, while a pot of coffee sits next to it, all for Arthur alone, no doubt.

“Anything interesting in the news?” Eames asks as he grabs the single donut from the plate.

“The Congregation of the Sanctity of Man is protesting against the deployment of psychics in public services.”

“That crazy church again. Pastor Browning? That ain’t news, innit,” Eames observes, licking off strawberry jam from his fingers. Peter Browning has the outs for Psychs since forever, calling them abominations and sometimes when he gets really going in his incendiary sermons, the servants of the devil himself. Eames often watches these things just for their sheer ridiculousness. Like come on, who talks like that these days?

“He’s being supported by senator Fisher who’s also calling for the compulsory testing and registration of all psychic individuals.”

On the screen, the senator appears to be giving an address to a group of reporters. Fisher is definitely much more restrained in his choice of words than the pastor. But between the polite smile and the strait-laced suit, Eames could still hear the disdain in his voice as the senator speaks about the need to “level the playing field” between psychics and the common man.

“It won’t pass,” he says calmly.

“Another one of your ‘hunches’?” Arthur asks as he makes an air-quote. There it is again, the condescension. Just when Eames thought they had been doing so well the night before.

“Nah,” he shrugs in response while sipping on his tea. It’s still piping hot and the taste, mellow, just the way he likes. It’s then Eames realizes that Arthur had removed the tea bag prior instead of letting it sits. “It’s call basic decency.”   

 

* * *

 

They hit the road after running through once more, a brief of all four victims and their circumstances. First victim - Antonio Carlos, 22 y.o. college student, found in a landfill with both his eyes gouged out. Two weeks later, Tommy Davis, 20 y.o. retail assistant was found on the banks of the river badly decomposed, but there were signs that his brain had been surgically removed. Next is Ben Miller, 33 y.o. insurance agent. His family had reported him missing 24 hour after he’d left for work. He was later found in his car beside a highway road with his tongue missing. As for their latest Jane Doe, she was identified this morning as one Clarice Chen. A 25 y.o. PhD student. The detective had already secured a search warrant for her flat, and they are to meet him there.  

“So how’s your hunches working?” Arthur asks when they stop at yet another red light, and Eames sighs. They have had this discussion before.

“You know I can’t control it.” There’s a reason why they are called hunches and not detailed-imagery-of-what-the-hell-happened-and-what’s-to-come-next.

“Won’t hurt to try. What comes to your mind when you read the report?”

Eames blinks, recognizing seconds later, that the question is from the handbook. The one that the program issues and supposedly helps guide precogs through their investigations. Eames had read the first three pages, before using the book as a door stopper. It’s still there, he thinks, right by the kitchen floor beside the bin.

“That I don’t really want to die like them.” The victims were all grisly deaths. But Eames thinks Chen have had the worst. And he hopes that the woman was well and truly dead, before that psycho carved into her.

“Okay,” Arthur murmurs as he rounds the corner. “How about the pictures? What do you think when you saw them.”

Eames hesitates briefly.  “A harvest,” he says and then frowns, why had he said that?

He spots Arthur’s perplexed expression in the rear view mirror and hastily adds, “I have no idea why I said that.”

But Arthur isn’t about to let him go that easily. “A harvest? Like farming?” he asks.

Eames runs his fingers through his hair, and looks at his reflection in the side mirror, glad that his aviator is shielding his eyes. He does not like where this conversation’s heading, but then he thinks of the victims, and it’s natural then that the pictures all rushes to the fore of his mind. _Empty eye sockets. A black mass of emptiness where organs should have been_. “Yeah,” he grounds out. “Like farming.”

The car’s so silent that he can hear every breath that Arthur inhales.

“Okay,” the man says rolling the car to a stop. “We can work with that.”

 

* * *

 

Chen’s flat is a small affair in the far corner of the city. Despite the location, the neighborhood looks decent, and the flat appears to come with good security. Eames has no idea what the rent is, but it appears slightly more than what a student with a teaching assistant position could have afford. Maybe Chen’s born rich like Saito.

As they make their way along the corridor, a door slams open, and a man stumbles out, pushing past them with a woman screaming obscenities right after him. A bad breakup, Eames hazards as they breeze right past the unfolding drama. Chen’s flat is a few doors down, and Eames could already see the detective at work, interviewing Chen’s neighbors. He gives them a nod as they passed.

The entrance has been secured off with a roll of neon yellow tape. Some of the techies recognized them from the day before and one of them offer a pair of disposable gloves to Eames with a wink. As Eames pulls them on, he turns to Arthur and wraggles his brows. Second day on the scene, and it seems like Eames already has his own groupie. The man just rolls his eyes, looking entirely unimpressed at what he must have think of as unprofessional conduct. Eames shrugs. It’s not his fault that Psychs are simply pure magnets for the geeks.

“So what do you guys think?” The detective asks as he enters right after them.

Well Eames has absolutely no idea, so he pats Arthur on the shoulder, leaving him to handle the adults’ talk and wanders off instead. Kitchen’s first. The fridge is almost empty other than a bottle of ketchup and some milk and eggs. But the cupboards are filled to the brim with ramen noodles. Typical.

As he ventures into her room, a nondescript desk enters his view. There’s a bundle of incense sticks on it. Eames stares at them for awhile, before plucking one out and tucks it in his front pocket. Right beside the incense is a bottle of pills which he doesn’t recognize. He picks it up and walks back to the duo who’s still talking.

“What’s that?” Arthur asks as Eames hands him the bottle.

“Some medication. Found it by her work desk.”

Arthur turns the bottle around and looks at the label. “Sleeping pills,” he says. Then considering the half empty bottle, he adds “Seems like Chen’s been having problem sleeping.”

“And you think this is related somehow?” The detective asks eagerly.

“We don’t know for sure,” Arthur admits. But the guy is already off barking for someone to look into Chen’s medical report.

“So what’s next?” Eames asks.

“Ben Miller’s family lives ten minutes from here. I am thinking we could stop by and get some statements. See if something’s missing.”

Eames considers the suggestion for a moment, then promptly shuts it down. “Nah. Let’s start with Tommy.”

“Tommy Davis? The second victim?” Arthur looks nonplussed in his moleskin. “His family lives on the other side of the city.”

“Yeah. Let’s start with him. I can drive.”

Arthur glowers and tosses him the keys.

 

* * *

 

Tommy’s family lives in the suburbs. Middle class background, white picket fences.

“Who are you guys?” A woman with graying hair answers when they knock on the door. As usual, Eames lets Arthur handle the introductions, “We’re with the police. Are you a relative of Mr Davis?”

“Is this about Tommy again?” She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Eames exchanges a look with Arthur. Her chilly disposition is not what Eames is expecting. Usually the people they talk to are a bit more receptive to the conversations. “Look, I have already told you guys. Tommy left a few years back. We didn’t bother to keep in contact and we have no idea what mess he’s gotten himself in.”

“Madam,” Eames tries. “We’re just here to ask you a few more questions…”

But the woman cuts him off, “Who are you guys again? I haven’t seen your badges.”  

Eames sends a questioning look at Arthur who nods. _Go ahead._

“We are from the FPMP,” he pulls out his badge. “We are working with the police for the investigation.”

But the woman ignores the badge, eyes narrowing instead at his face. “I have heard of the FPMP. You’re the freaks.” Her voice is full of malice. “They’ve warned us of you… Wait, are you guys doing it now?” she asks abruptly, and Eames stares at her blankly.

“Are you guys manipulating me into talking?” she spits, voice turning into a shrill.

“What…”

“Nope. I’m done talking to you guys,” she waves him off. “You police wants to talk, send someone normal. I’m not going to talk to you freaks.”

As she moves to shut the door on them, Eames, all bristled with indignation, stops her. “Wait. Don’t you want to help to find Tommy’s murderer?”

She stops and levels him a stare, cold enough to chill, “Get the hell off my porch.”

Eames barely manages to step back, as the door slams right in his face.

“Well… that’s new,” he says. That’s not how his hunches usually went. And all that after he had derailed Arthur’s plan and got them here instead. Perhaps Eames is losing his touch. Clamping down his embarrassment, he turns and gives a shrug, “Maybe we should try something else?”

But Arthur’s not listening. He’s staring at the door, an unreadable expression on his face. “What an asshat,” the man quips all of a sudden.

 _What? Who? Oh that woman?_ And that’s when Eames does a double take and takes a  closer look at him. The frowns on the corner of his lips are more down turned than usually, and the creases on his forehead, tighter. Arthur’s angry, Eames realizes. Immaculate, poker-faced Arthur, all angry over some insults thrown at the Eames. _Or,_ Eames rolls back on his thought, maybe he is just reading too much into it and seeing what he wants to see. Maybe Arthur just gets annoyed with impolite people. Yeah that sounds more like it.

Still as they walk back to the car, Eames can’t quench that fuzzy feeling blooming in him, that maybe, just maybe. That was all for Eames.

There’s a knock on his side of the window as he pulls on his seat belt. Eames looks up and finds a kid staring intently at him, while two other hover behind him. The kid knocks again impatiently, and Eames rolls down the window.

“Are you guy freaks?” the kid launches into the question, while his friends squeal, finding much humor in their friend’s candidness.

“You mean psychic?” Eames says, trying on his most affronted look, which scares almost no kids these days.

“Same thing,” one of them jeers back and the others descend into giggles again.  

“Yeah psychic, whatever,” the girl in the group says. “We heard Mrs Davis. She called you guys freaks.”

“Well she’s wrong.” The kids turn to each other, looking mildly disappointed. But only for a brief moment because Eames continues, “My friend Arthur here is as psychic as a brick wall. I am the only one here with all the cool powers.”

 _Awesome._ One of them mouths. But the more cautious of the three, crosses her hand and asks defiantly, “So what can you do?”

“Well. Some pretty cool things...” Eames hedges and the girl narrows her eyes and Eames puts up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, what do you kids know about Psychs?”

The kids exchanges blank look at each other before one says, “Well my mum says that Mrs Davis’ son can move things with his mind.”

A hand comes to rest on his forearm. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Arthur leaning forward. They swap a look. _Jackpot._

The kids are still waiting for his answer when Eames turns around. “Tell you what. You kids tell me what you know about Mrs Davis’ son, and I will show you what I can do.”

 

* * *

 

“Tommy Davis is a Psych,” Eames says once they are back in the hotel.

“How?” Arthurs questions, shedding his suit and hangs it in the closet. “It’s not in his records.”

“Maybe he’s never tested,” Eames guesses. “It’s not unheard of.”

He himself had never taken the test until late in his thirties, when the FPMP caught up to him. And he’s sure there are many more Psychs like him. Given the sentiments of some people like Browning and Fisher, it’s not hard to see why some psychics would prefer to keep their talents hidden. _But Tommy…_ _oh gosh his family._ Eames reflects back to how Mrs Davis had reacted to his presence. _Poor kid,_ he thinks as he rubs at his forehead. _It’s so screwed up._

“And you think this is related to the case?” Arthur asks, already flipping through his moleskin and eyeing through his notes with incredible efficiency.

“Yeah,” Eames nods without thinking. “I don’t know what the link is. But yeah, I think it is.”

“And the other victims? You think they are off-record Psychs?” Arthur is thinking, Eames can see him trying to remap lines between everything they have and the new piece of information.

“One more thing,” Eames remembers and then pulls the incense out from his pocket. “I found this on Chen’s desk.”

“And you just took it?” Of course, that would be the point Arthur would fixates on.

“Well, there’s a bunch of them left. And wherever she’s at now, she’s not going to miss it.” In fact, if this can bring them closer to her murderer, Eames does not think the woman will mind very much.

“Fine. What kind of incense is it?”

Eames reaches for the matchbox beside the ashtray. “Only way to find out,” he says and strikes a match. A few moments later, a strong pungent smells fills the room and Eames thinks it kind of reminds him of weed. He’s about to comment on it, when Arthur beats him to it.

“Sage,” the man says grimly. “I think Chen is an empath.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a crazy week! I will need to get some packing done. So most likely the next chapter will only be done next weekend :(


	5. Chapter 5

Sage, a plant, traditionally used by Native American to strengthen mental clarity.  
_Smudging, the act of burning sage to cleanse one’s mind and soul of negative energies  
_  – How to train your Psych, handbook edition 2

It might have been a bit of a stretch, Arthur admits. Just because Davis, according to unverified sources, may have psychic abilities, it doesn’t mean that Chen would have them too. Maybe she just happens to like the scent of burning sage? He takes in a tiny whiff and frowns. Sage may appeal to some people, but it will not make his list of favorite candle scent anytime soon. Point is, it could have been a coincidence.

 _Coincidence._ Arthur can almost hear Mal’s derision. _There’s no such things as coincidence, boy. Either it happens or it won’t._

There has been almost no pattern in the killings so far. Other than the sheer cruelty of their mutilations and their age, there’s no obvious commonality threading the victims. They appear to be selected entirely by random. At least until now. If Chen is indeed psychic, if she is, then it’s two out of four, which makes four out of four ever the more possible. And this, Arthur thinks, this is perhaps their best lead.

“We need something concrete,” he decides. “If the victims are Psychs, tested or not, something’s got to give. Someone’s got to know. Witness accounts, medical records, prescription, insurance claim,” he lists. “There has to be a trail.”

“If it’s medical record, we do have one. They should be sending us Chen’s right about now.”

There’s indeed a new email sitting in his inbox. Arthur clicks on the attached file and browse through it quickly, “It says here that the pills were prescribed by a Dr Robert Fisher, MD in Psychiatry.”

“Fisher? Like the Senator?” Eames asks, but Arthur’s already a step ahead, running the search through the web. The Senator does have a son, but the man had thus far only make passing remark about his family. There’s no name mentioned, much less a picture.

“Try the doctor’s.” Eames says again, and Arthur rolls his eyes and huffs. The Psych seems to forget that Arthur’s the one with the research skill, and instead is intent to keep offering suggestion, while standing far too close, that he’s literally breathing down Arthur’s neck.

The new search did not shed any light on potential blood ties between the two Fishers. But it did direct them to the doctor’s practice - a mid-sized clinic on the outskirts of town. There’s still no picture of Dr Fisher, but Arthur is surprised instead to find one of Browning’s, who happens to be on the clinic’s board of directors.

_There’s no such things as coincidence._

“It says here that the clinic ‘specializes in the treatment and correction therapies of psychic tendencies _’,_ ” Eames recites off the screen. “Jesus. They make it sounds like we are diseased or something. And what do they even mean by treatment? How are they going to do that? Splice my genes from me?”

As Eames descends into a rant, Arthur scrolls through the page, and finds himself increasingly annoyed with the words on it. He may not be a psych, but he can somehow relates with Eames’ frustration. The clinic is blatant discrimination, and it’s laughable that such a practice is still legal in this part of the country. He makes a note to check with Saito if discriminatory act is something the FPMP can interfere in once the murder investigation is over.

“So what do you think?” Eames places a hand on his shoulders and squeezes lightly. “Bet you a drink that the two Fishers are related.”

Arthur stares at the hand, and then up at it’s owner, who grins and makes no move to remove said offending hand. So Arthur smacks him away, making sure to put in more force than necessary, feeling immediately gratified when Eames yelps at the sting. But when the man brings his hand to his lips as if to kiss away the pain, Arthur feels a strangeness tugging at his guts. To chase it away, he stands and smooths out the creases on his waistcoat, “Take the other side of the bet and you are on.”

“So you are calling it as well? And here I thought that I am the only one here with the intuition,” Eames says, now outright sucking on the back of his hand as he walks jauntily towards the closet, a sight which Arthur finds, somewhat mortified, hard to tear his eyes away from.

As distracted as he is, he still manages to catch the jacket thrown in his direction. When he looks up from the crumpled fabric in his hand, Eames has already grabbed the car keys, and is pulling on his own coat. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, while throwing Arthur an amused smirk. “Come on. I think it’s time we have a consultation with Dr Fisher.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur lets Eames drives while he makes the call to the detective and asks if it’s possible for his team to run by the victim’s families again and get some confirmation as to whether the victims could be psychs. “Fine. Consider it done,” the man barks and promptly hangs up. As abrupt as ever, Arthur thinks irritably.

“What do you think of him?” He asks as he stares at his phone. The detective, though reluctant, has still been efficient in the investigation, and that itself is a step above many others they have worked with.

“What do I think of him?” Eames repeats distractedly. Their trip today has been remarkably silent compared to the ones when Arthur’s driving, and Eames just keeps chatting. Seems like his partner is the type of driver who keeps his focus on the road only when he’s the one behind the wheels. “The detective? Nothing I suppose.”

“Nothing?” Arthur still has no idea how Eames’ psych works. But the man usually has a good read on people. Like that last case, in which during a networking with the partners of the firm they are investigating, and Eames had singled out amongst all twenty of them, one well-dressed man that just “feels wrong”. And that man had turned out to be the mastermind behind the psyactive drug smuggling ring. It's enough recurrences of incidents like these that forces Arthur to trust Eames’ instinct or at the very least, pay attention to it. He's practical like that. 

“Nothing,” Eames confirms. “Except…” He muses it over again before saying, “I think he kind of reminds me of you.”

“What?” In no way, is Arthur similar to that weirdo.

“Yeah. Both of you always have this frown on your faces. Like you are offended by something. I can never get a read on you.”

“That’s not true…” his protest cuts short, when Eames shushes him down and starts to park. It took three reverses and much maneuvering before he could slot the car in the spot. Even then, as Arthur gets off the car, he notices that it’s parked crooked. It seems that Eames wasn’t lying about his driving skills at the very least.

The facility is slightly larger than what Arthur has pictured. On the website, it states that the clinic specializes in psych evaluation, treatment, as well as injury and damages inflicted by psychic means. Given how niche the market is, he hadn’t think that the practice would be so lucrative as to warrant its size.

The interior of the building is awashed in white. The standard color, or absence of color, said to put Psych’s at ease. Arthur had asked Adriane about the research once. She had snorted and went on to rant about how she’s Psychic, not color-blind. Her own rented flat had been painted a robin egg blue decorated with pastel green curtains.

There’s a faint fragrance in the air overlaying the sterile environment. Arthur makes a note to ask the receptionist about it, but Eames is as usual, a step ahead when it comes to buttering up the staffs.

“Is Dr Fisher around?” The man asks innocuously, while sending what’s definitely a very charming smile to the reception. The accent and the garish shirt might have caught the ladies off guard, for one of them simply points out, in what must have been a breach of procedures, at a white coat waiting by the elevator. “If you are looking for Dr Fisher, he’s right over there.” And then, seeming to think better of it, hastily adds, “But don’t quote me on that.”

Eames blows her a kiss in response, and the woman blinks, before turning back to her tasks with a faint smile. It takes all of Arthur’s willpower not to breaks out in hives at the cheesiness of the exchange. He hurries instead, to intercept Dr Fisher by the elevator.

“Dr Fisher, we are from the FPMP, we have some questions for you with regards to one of your patient Clarice Chen,” Arthur pulls out his badge, with Eames following suit behind.

The doctor’s blue eyes widens at the sight of their badges, “Clarice? Yes, she is a patient of mine. What’s wrong?”

“Chen was found murdered. We think you might have some information to help with the investigation.”

Robert Fisher looks visibly distressed by the news, and shaken. Arthur allows him a minute to settle before asking, “Do you mind if we talk in your office?” An open corridor in a clinic is not the most discreet place to discuss a suspected serial killing spree.

“Yes, yes. Of course. Please follow me,” the doctor replies, still somewhat dazedly and leads them into the elevator, all the way up to a well-furnished room on the third floor. Taking a quick scan of the room, Arthur realizes that there’s no picture of the doctor with his family. The man has no ring, so that’s not much of a surprise, but still, even by Arthur’s standard, the office lacks a personal touch.

“Is this where you perform your consultation?” He can’t help but asks.

“No, no, not here.” The doctor has his back facing them, as he fiddles about with his coffee machine. The whirling buzz of the machine soon filled the room, followed by the aroma of creme and roasts. “As you can see I like to keep my things neat. But this seems to unsettle some of my patients. So I have a separate room for the consultations on the ground floor.”

He then turns and spots them still standing in the room. “Where are my manners?” He says while setting the cups of coffee on the table. “Please have a seat gentlemen, and do have some coffee.”  

Arthur takes a seat, and stares hesitatingly at the coffee. It’s smells really good. Even Eames, who usually favors tea, isn’t able to resist, and Arthur spots him taking a sip. Still, Arthur refrains. They are here for work, not a coffee break, and one of them at least has to keep up some semblance of professionalism.

“No coffee for you?” Fisher asks curiously when he notices the coffee untouched.  

“I’ve already had a pot this morning. And if it’s fine, I would like to discuss about Chen.”

“Go ahead.” Fisher sits back and nurses his own cup.

“Is Chen a psychic?” Arthur asks.

Fisher obviously stilted, before narrowing his eyes at them. “Is this relevant to the case?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it isn’t.”

The doctor contemplates him for a brief moment before sighing tiredly, “Gentlemen before we continue, I would like you to be aware, that our patients come to us because they value the anonymity we offer. So can you assure me, whatever conversations we have in this room remains in this room?”

“We can’t promise that,” Arthur blurts out. Any discussion pertaining to a case faces the possibility of being presented in court during trials.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t answer the earlier question.” Fisher stares defiantly at Arthur. It appears that they are at a standstill until Eames interjects, “Look, Dr Fisher. We think the murderer is going to kill again. Chen may be dead, but you have the information to help us prevent a next victim like her.”

Fisher looks torn by the information briefly before recomposing himself. “You don’t understand. My patients, they don’t want to be associated with the burdens of being psychics. They want to be seen as normal. Clarice, too, I don’t think she wants to be known as a Psych. So if this information turns out to be irrelevant, I don’t want you to mention it to the press.”

“We won’t,” Eames promises before Arthur could get a word in. “So she’s really a Psych then?”

Fisher considers Eames intently, before finally nodding. “An empath.”

“And is that why you prescribe her sleeping pills?” Arthur clicks on his pen and takes out his notebook.

“Clarice’s been stressed, working on her doctorate thesis. And she can’t concentrate if she gets constantly attacked by the emotions of others. The pills are supposed to help dull her receptiveness, and get some rest at least.”

Arthur thinks back on the conditions of Chen’s apartment, and how living in such closely populated blocks might place a mental burden on a stressed empath. “Why sleeping pills then, why not anti-psyactives?” He asks, and immediately realizes the answer to it. “Unless she doesn’t want to be registered.”

“That’s right. Anti-psyactives prescription requires the patients to be tested and registered as a Psych. Clarice doesn’t want that on her records at all.”

“And why is that?”

“I am her psychiatrist, not her psychologist. I am not privy to her reasons,” Fisher shifts and crosses his legs and Arthur thinks the man knows more than what he divulges.

“Has she given you any clues, or mention anything in passing? Anything.” He fishes. “It could be important to the investigation.”

Fisher frowns, eyes shifting between his cup and his hands, but finally looks back at Arthur and offers a tidbit. “All I can say is, Clarice’s profession requires her to compete with too many people for too limited resources. And in this field, some may think that being an empath can offers a very distinctive advantage. So if her competitors know what she can do, they would not hesitate to make use of that information to discredit all her achievements. And that’s the outcome she feared the most.”

Arthur chances a quick glance at Eames, whose face remains painfully impassive and unreadable and appears not at all affected by the discussion on the psychology of another Psych. Moving on, he offers the pictures of the other victims to the doctor instead. “How about these people?” He asks. “Do you recognize them?”

Fisher hums as he looks through them, before pushing them across the desk back to Arthur. “No. I don’t think I have seen these people before. But it’s possible they were treated by the other doctors. If you can send me their names and details, I can run them through our admin.”

Fair enough. He collects the photos and slots them neatly back into the moleskin. He would have to make a note though, for permission to share the victims’ profiles with the clinic.

“One last question.” Arthur looks pointedly at the man in white. “Are you by any chance related to Senator Maurice Fisher?”

The man meets his stare head on, his gaze sharpening which makes the swift admission that follows all the more startling. “I don’t see how this is related to the case, but my father is indeed Senator Fisher.”

Arthur’s surprise must have shown for the doctor’s expression softens as he explains, “I have had many patients ask me this same question and it’s my policy to always be honest with them. And I will be honest with you. That yes, I am the senator’s wayward son who chose to enter into the field of medicine and not politics.”

The man smile turn deprecating, “A decision which obviously did not sit well with my father. It’s just… I know you may think that my father’s political opinion factors into my specialization. But that’s not why I provide the treatments I do. You are from the FPMP - and believe me when I say I know what that means - you have made peace with your abilities. But there are people out there who do not have that luxury. There are psychics who don’t want to be constantly plagued by the negative thoughts and emotions of others. They want to live their lives just like any other people. I think it’s possible. And I want to help them. That’s what brought me into this field and this work. Not my father.”

Fisher sounds earnest enough, as he levels his pale eyes at them. And Arthur wants very hard to believe in him. Perhaps for the sake of people like Chen, who can’t help being who they are. And he wonders then, if Eames ever felt his talent as a burden instead of a gift. How about Mal then? Or Ariadne? Were they once like Chen, who prefers to blend in with the seventy percent of the majority, the world which Arthur can comprehend.

He has no answer to it, even as he stands up and shakes Fisher’s hand, thanking him for his cooperation.

With Dr Fisher insisting on accompanying them down, the elevator ride to the ground floor is awkward and silent, which may be why Arthur’s suddenly tempted to ask, “What scent is it anyway?”

“I am sorry?”

“The fragrance you are using for the clinic,” Arthur clarifies, and an understanding graces upon Fisher’s face. “Oh that,” he says. “It’s a special mix of desert sage and lavender. We have been advised that herbs, especially sage can help soothes our patient’s mind. ”

“Sage? It smells different than the ones Chen uses.”

“Is that so?” The doctor sounds unperturbed. “I am not an expert. But I do believe, there are many types of sages with different purposes.” The elevator comes to a halt. “Good day, gentlemen. And please I hope you find Clarice’s murderer,” With that said, Robert Fisher left them, heading presumably for his next consultation.

 

* * *

 

“So Fisher,” Arthur says once they are back in the safe vicinity of the car. “Junior or the Senior?” Eames asks cheekily, as he turns on the key and the engine purrs to life.

“The one we just talk to. How do you feel about him?”

“Not really my type if that’s what you are asking.” If Arthur manages to resist the urge to throttle his partner, it’s only because Eames’ the one driving at the moment. He settles for rolling his eyes instead, “I mean your hunches. What does your hunches say about the doctor and the clinic?”  

Eames scratches his forehead, and pulls off his seat belt. “Let’s swap. You drive.” The man says before crawling right into Arthur’s space in the passenger seat.

“Wait! What?” Arthur says panickedly, and scrambles to eject his seatbelt while fighting with the man for space. Eames is all hard-lined muscles and heat which seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt. Arthur could barely wait to get away, when the passenger door finally swings open and he clambers out, glaring Eames who now sits comfortably in the passenger seat while grinning like a maniac.

“You, Mr Eames,” Arthur scowls as he walks over and climbs into the driver seat. “Are simply the worst.”

“Now, darling. Driving takes too much of my concentration. I can either talk or I can drive. But I can’t do both. You don’t want us to crash along the way do you?” In response, Arthur only narrows his eyes and releases the hand brakes.

“Now back to Fisher,” Eames sighs. “To be honest. I don’t really know. The clinic gave me the creeps. It’s all sterile and everything. No matter what the doc say, that place’s still reminds me of a corrective camp for Psychs. I can’t wait to leave that dreary place behind to be honest. In fact I think I need to cleanse my vibe or something after that. I say let’s go for a drink.”

“A drink.” Arthur deadpans. “May I remind you, Mr Eames, we are still in the middle of an investigation.”

“Yes, and we have already done all sorts of investigation for the day.” Eames snorts. “Come on, it’s going to take them more time to get the statements from Miller’s and Carlo’s families. And you know what,” the Psych presses. “For some reason I feel really thirsty. And I really think we should go to that bar across the street from where we are staying. You know how I work, and I really don’t think we should ignore this ‘feeling’ I am having.” He ends his spiel with an air quote.

Arthur eyes him suspiciously and not for the first time, wishes that he has some kind of low level telepathic abilities just to be able to get a read off that man. But no, Arthur is as psychic as a brick and Eames has a rock solid poker face.

“Fine,” Arthur, as usual, is the one to fold.

They walk to the pub right across their hotel once the car is safely parked. It’s a cozy affair and the crowd is particularly light in the early evening, on a non-game weekday.

“Order what you want. I will buy,” Eames says as he removes his coat and throws it over a high chair, and sets about making himself comfortable.

“Why?” Arthur did not bother to remove his jacket. They won’t be here for long after all. Just one beer, enough to maybe get Eames’ whatever mojo going and then leave.

“Well, I lost the bet after all didn’t I,” the man says cheerily. They are at the counter, and Eames orders them both a beer before Arthur can even get a word in. Huffing, he climbs onto the chair right next to Eames, realizing only then that the space between the counter and the chairs is too crammed for his legs. As he shuffles to find a more comfortable position, he could feel Eames doing the same, and somehow that ends with both of them having one knee bumped against each other and Eames' arm slung across the back of Arthur’s chair. And it’s too awkward then to remove his knee without drawing even more attention. He turns to catch Eames' face, that’s suddenly just as close, and his eyes darts immediately down to the drink menu on the counter.

“That doesn’t count. It wasn’t even a fair bet in the first place.” First Fisher, then Browning? It hardly takes much brain cell to put two and two together. He looks up from the drink menu to see Eames looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“You are going to make this hard for me aren’t you, Arthur?” Eames drawls. The man had only said his name once, the first time they met, and then promptly switches to a litany of endearments that only gets more ridiculous the longer their partnership progresses. Arthur has learn by now to tune them all out. But having his name spoken so long since, sends a heat down his gut, all the way to that spot where their knees pressed against each other. The moment feels charged and inexplicably intimate, broken only by the arrival of their beer and the sound of glasses against wood. Arthur blinks, and thinking better of it, reaches for the beer.

“I never thank you for pulling me out of limbo,” Eames looks at him intently for a moment, before taking a sip of his own beer.

“Was it your first time?” Arthur says, glad that they have steer into the safety of work-related conversations. “Falling into limbo I mean.”

“Scared that it will turn into a habit?”

“I like being prepared,” Arthur replies testily. They were lucky the last time. If Eames goes into limbo again, Arthur wants to know the exact way to get him out. He’s not leaving his partner’s life to chances. And he wonders if Eames gets the message. 

“Once,” the man says after a brief pause and Arthur glances questioningly at him. 

“I have only fallen into limbo this one other time. And it was a long time ago.” Eames slips his hand over Arthur’s, a blanket of warmth that spreads so ever slowly through him. “So there’s no need for you to worry. It won’t happen again.”

“How did you get out then?” And the hand slips away again, fleetingly like a mirage.

“No idea. It wasn’t deep I think. One moment I was in my house, and the next moment I was roaming down the street like a raving mad man. Someone called the police on me. Worst psychotic break ever,” Eames laughs.

 _It’s on his files,_ Arthur realizes. _It’s on Eames file._ The incident was written off as a cocktail of school stress and teenage hormones, but Arthur had read his whole file and had cross reference the dates and he knows better what came later.

He knows he should back away, these are wound that does not bear digging into. Both of theirs. But Arthur’s the type of kid who would pick on his scabs, pull them off fresh pink skins till they bleed, and heal and repeat, until the wounds were badly scarred all over. Then he leaves them to time to fade. Yet it has already been years of going through obsessively all the events leading to the foregone end to see if there’s ever a point he could have saved her. And he wonders if Eames was ever the same, reliving that day over and over again, tormenting himself over the possibilities that could have been. So he must ask, “Do you ever regret how it went?”

Eames’ head snaps up, eyes widening in shock. Something in Arthur’s expression must have shown for something dark seeps into Eames’ eyes. He knows then, that Arthur knows. “Do I regret it?” The man chuckles humorlessly. “Do I regret it, you ask?” He run his fingers through his hair, and closes his eyes, “Every single fucking day.”

 _Yes._ Arthur wants to say. He knows that feeling all too well. 

_Every single fucking day._

And some days, Arthur just wants to scream.

It’s fortuitous that his phone rings then, as he has no idea how he could close the can of worms he had so jarringly pry open. Saito’s on the line, his voice sounding as calm as usual, “Good evening gentlemen, I’m just wondering if you have had the chance to catch the news over there?”

That so unsubtle a hint, that it might as well have been an order.

“One moment,” Arthur signals for the bartender and asks if the channels could be switch to the news instead. He is given the remote instead, and then has to spend the next few seconds smashing on the up button till the familiar logo of the local news network blinks in the corner of the screen.

“Oh shit.” Beside him, Eames curses silently. Arthur’s exact sentiment as he stares up at the pictures of all four victims - Carlos, Davis, Miller and Chen. All four of them, on the screen, in the news, with a big bold statement flashing right at the bottom - S _erial killer at work?_

The news had broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know how the plot goes. but i have no idea what the characters are doing tbh ...  
> They just do whatever they want to do.  
> Still packing and my time is now split btw the two.


	6. Chapter 6

The chief, a dignified man with salt and pepper hair, addresses the reporters on the recent spate of murders while Eames and Arthur looks on wearily from the back of the room in safe obscurity from the eager eyes of the press. Both men had spent the early morning hours reviewing the case with the investigation team and Eames is all but frazzled. Even Arthur, who has skipped his morning run, looks strung out, one hand gripping tightly to his third coffee for the day.

The FPMP’s involvement is carefully and deliberately omitted from the official press releases. Confidentiality had always been part of their jobs and all agents of the FPMP, especially the Psychs, are to be kept as far away as possible from public scrutiny. _Security reasons_ , Saito had said offhandedly as if it’s an afterthought. But Eames knows better. Precogs like Mal, or omniscients like Ariadne? If people ever know what they are capable of, mark Eames’ words, wars will be fought.

As it is, the detective, looking rumpled as usual, is the one assigned the responsibility of being up on the stage explaining the brief and fielding the questions. And Eames does not envy his job. There are four people dead, each bearing mutilation more gruesome than the last. Yet, the perp has left no trail, nor clues, just bodies in his wake. It’s cases like this that gets the public all ansty and if there’s no breakthrough soon, a witch hunt will begin, and heads will roll.

“As you can see, there’s no obvious commonality between the victims in terms of ethnicity, gender, and appearances…” the detective drones on, “In terms of age, the victims do fall in the same demographic segment, and recent investigations also reveals that all victims have been individuals with psychic abilities.”

That’s right. In the original interviews, no one had not thought the subject relevant enough to be brought up. But new statements from Miller’s family and Carlo’s course mates now confirm that both men had been psychic. Like Chen and Davis.

Like Eames.

Except these people had lack the good fortune as he had, to be placed under the protection of the FPMP.

A hand shot up from the sea of press, and the detective gives the go-ahead signal for the question. “You said that all the victims were psychic individuals. Could this have been a hate crime?”

There it is. Witch hunt and finger pointing. Soon there will be organized protest marches and counter protests and everything. One wrong statement, and tensions would flare.

The detective swallows visibly, and pauses to organize his thoughts, “That’s one possibility. But at this stage, we are still working the case from all possible angles. Hence I would advise against any speculations at the moment. Next question!”  

The flashes of camera that spark from the proclamation, throw too much glare at Eames’ sleep-deprived eyes, so he put on his aviators and gives a light tap on Arthur’s shoulder. They sneak out, the creak of the closing door barely heard over the snaps-snaps of the shutters over lens.

“What do you think?” The Stiff asks as soon as they are out alone on the corridor and at a safe distance from any prying ears.

“Of what?”

“The victims being Psychs.” That had been news to them both as well, broken by the detective only minutes before the press was called in.

“What of it?” He shrugs nonchalantly, the perfect expression of indifference with his eyes safely hidden behind his shades. But Arthur narrows his in response.  

“You know what I mean. You falling into limbo wasn’t a coincidence.”

Eames inhales sharply, though he has no idea why he’s even surprised at all. Of course Arthur would have connected the dots. Smart, intelligent, infuriating Arthur who reads Eames files as thoroughly as he would with any other, and could remember even the tiniest detail that would have barely blimped on anyone else’s radar. Eames should have thought it through better before handing him that little piece of rope that’s now around his neck. But as it is, there’s only three options left - pretend, deny or confirm. Guess which one he will go with first?

“What do you think it is then?”

“A warning signal,” Arthur says with barely a pause. “You said so yourself, your guts are telling you to get out and get away.”

Naturally Arthur is too stubborn to let Eames drown in denial for long.  

“The perp is obviously targeting Psychs. And you know who else is a Psych? You.” Arthur sticks a finger at his chest. “We should sit out on this case.”

“Ain’t this a familiar conversation? Oh right. Ariadne and Mal, remember? You know very well the reason why we can’t.” Eames retorts with a scoff, hoping to throw Arthur off his trail. But the man’s like a well-trained hunting dog, relentlessly biting on once he’s on to his prey. Eames had seen poised men crumbled before Arthur, he should have known better than to bait.

“But this isn’t just about them, is it?” Arthur says, careful to keep his tone low even with the accusation. “This is about you. Look - ”

Eames cut him off instead, and points his finger right back at Arthur.

“No, you look,” he says, voice sounding more harshly than he intends. “I ran once. I am not going to do it again.”

“If this is about that incident, it is not your fault.”

“It is not,” Eames agrees. He has gotten over that phase of self hatred a long time ago. Now, only one lingering sentiment remains. “But it’s my regret,” he confesses. “So help me out here, Arthur. I have to stay. You know I have to,” he is pleading, he knows. And it sounds pathetic even to his own ears. But what can he say? Arthur brings out the desperation in him.

His partner looks as if he has more to argue, but in the end, falls short of finding the words. The conversation tapers off and the silence stretches on between them uncomfortably. In contrast to their somber moods, the weather outside the windows is sunny and bright. A rarity in this season.

“We should go for a walk,” Eames blurts out suddenly, the fight going out of him. “Cool our heads, then talk again. Whatever.”

“First a drink, now a walk. Your repertoire is expanding. Mr Eames,” Arthur sighs. Still the man puts on his sunglasses and heads for the exit, tossing the coffee cup into the nearest trash bin.

The drink had been a smokescreen of course. An excuse to get Arthur away from work. A chance to perhaps lower the man’s prickly barrier. And a hope that maybe they can get to know each other better if there had been some alcohol involved. That had turned out to be a very bad idea. Arthur had remained as much of a closed book as before, and Eames had been the one who revealed too much of himself. Never has Karma been swifter for a liar.

But that’s then, and now’s now, and currently Eames did feel like a walk is a good idea.

So they go, dropping by a delightful corner cafe first to grab a few bites. Two men in suits, each with a sandwich of his own, taking a long stroll by the stretch of green just around the block. Just a temporary truce of course, which lasts only till the last crumb was patted away from the crisp three piece.

“It’s dangerous for you to stay.”

“Careful darling, show too much concern and your rep will take a hit,” Eames smiles, before whispering as if he would a secret. “I might start to think you like me.”

The steps beside him stalls and eventually stops, a few paces behind. Eames turns around and sees Arthur staring at him, face unreadable.

“You…” The man tries, falters, then continues. “You annoy me.”

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, yet the punch still hurts enough to mortify. Eames finds himself responding reflexively, “Well strangely enough, the feeling is - ”  

But Arthur has his hand clasp over Eames’ mouth in a blink, “Can you shut up for once and let me do the talking?”

It takes all of Eames’ willpower to hold still and not lick into the hand that’s still sweet with the taste of honeyed mustard. They are standing close, barely a feet apart. To a bystander, the moment must have look as intimate as Eames feels. As he levels his eyes straight into Arthur’s, he could tell that it’s not lost on the man as well. And just as sudden, Arthur jerks his hand away and Eames breathes out slowly.

“Mr Eames, you frustrate me,” the man hisses, straightening his vest. “But - and I don’t know where you even get that idea from - I don’t dislike you. That paisley shirt you always wear maybe. But never you.”

Still reeling from earlier, it takes a second for Arthur’s words to sink in. “You don’t dislike me?” Eames finds himself chuckling at the double negatives, and then in a fit of insanity and impulsiveness he never knew he possesses, asks, “Can I take it that you like me then?”

The flush to the man’s cheeks is disorienting.  A complete surprise which hits Eames giddy. _Impossible,_ he thinks, even as something akin to hope sprouts deep within and turn his mouth dry and his mind whirling, “Wait - ”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a voice interrupts and Eames jumps. Arthur, with all his military training, instinctively goes for the offensive, and had the interloper on the ground with one arm twisted behind his back, his movements so fast that Eames’ eyes could barely track them.

“Woah, woah, woah! Easy, pal!” Their captive grunts in pain, dark eyes darting fearfully between Eames and Arthur.

“Who are you? Why were you following us?”

 _Hm?_ Eames thinks as he stares first at the dark skinned guy, and then at Arthur. Seems like life off the streets had made Eames soft. Or more likely, he’s been too distracted by the sight of Arthur licking mustard off his fingers. Otherwise there’s no way Eames could have overlook a greasy looking guy in a ratty looking cardigan trailing behind them.

“I am a reporter! Name's Yusuf, just want to ask you some question.” Yusuf raises his free hand up in a gesture of surrender. “I am unarmed. You can check.” he says as Arthur pats him down. Satisfied with his search, Arthur releases his grip on the man with practiced ease while Eames watches on, all too impressed. Shallow appearances alone, people tend to think of Arthur as the brains to Eames’ brawn. But between them both, they know better. Just like Eames will never come out top in a physical altercation with the Stiff, Arthur will never be faster than him when it comes to a lead.

“So Yusuf, ” he says with a jaunty grin as he kneels down to look the man in the eye. “What’s your reason for interrupting a little lunch date between a bloke and his mate?” _And being an utter cockblock_. Although that last thought, Eames keeps to himself.

“Nice try.” Yusuf grimaces, rubbing his arms gingerly against his chest. “But I already know you guys are from the FPMP, and you are working on the serial murder case.”  

“Oh,” Eames exchanges a look with Arthur. “So someone snitched? Pray tell who?”

“I am not going to give up my source.”

“You won’t have to. We will find out soon enough,” Arthur says icily and tilts his head signaling to leave. Eames gets the hint, stands up and pats the dust off the tails of his jacket, stalling just enough time for Yusuf to start babbling, “Wait, wait, guys. Forget about my source and just hear me out, okay? The case you are working on right now? I may have a lead for you.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow at the declaration and turns to look at Eames who shrugs in response.

“Are you guys telepaths?” Yusuf eyes them with interest. “You are like doing that thing where you are obviously communicating but not in words. And this is not cool. This is so not cool. Quid pro quo, man. I give you something, you help me with my scoop and for that to happen you need to start involving me in whatever conversation you guys are having.”

As Yusuf descends into his rant, all the while sitting on the ground and being subjected to Arthur’s increasingly icy stare, Eames decides that he kind of likes the guy.  

“What lead do you have? Mr Yusuf,” Arthur asks, the strain in his voice a clear indication of a patience that’s wearing thin with each moment.  

“Uh huh. No man. It doesn’t work this way. You first.”

“Now, now. Let me handle this,” Eames chirps in, giving what he hopes is a calming pat on Arthur’s chest. “So mate, here’s the deal. My partner here is not a patient man. After that spying trick you pulled, he is this close - ” he holds his thumb and index finger up, an inch apart, for emphasis. “- to marking you as a person of interest and dragging you down to the station, with or without your compliance.” Knowing Arthur, it’s something the man would actually do. And as Eames observes Yusuf giving that gelled hair and spotless suit a second look, he can tell the reporter had come to the same conclusion.  

“So I think it’s best you tell us what you know now. And in return, I will make sure to leave some breadcrumbs out for you.”

“Eames...” Arthur warns.

“Hush now, darling. We are all working on the same goal here. It’s only fair that Yusuf gets some credits for his efforts as well.”

In his short stint back as a con man, Eames had devoted a ton of effort to perfect the art of pitching. He knows the exact tone to affect, the posture to pull, not to mention a style that somehow borders between archaic and swarmy, all to have his target fall for his words. Hook, line and sinker. Yusuf is no exception.

“That’s what I am saying, man.” He clasps at the hand Eames offered, and pulls himself up while dusting his back.  “You see, I have been working on this case. People getting drugged, and waking up the next day in some god forsaken place with no recollection of how they get there. Zilch. Nada,” he says. “But later when they got into a the shower, they would notice a surgical scar. Next thing they know, the doctor is telling them they are missing a kidney or parts of their liver.”

“Isn’t that an urban legend?” Arthur deadpans.

“But is it really though? Look at the details of your case. Missing organs. Check. Psychs. Check.”

“Hold on a minute. How did the psychs comes into play? Or am I missing something.”

Yusuf turns to look at Eames with a glint in his eyes, “I have this theory.” He digs a card out from his wallet and scribbles something on it, before passing it to Eames. It’s Yusuf’s name card, with a website address scribbles beneath it, follow by a pass code in a string of numbers.

“Go check out this address at eight tonight,” the reporter says. “Then call me. And we can discuss.”

Which is why they end up six hours later in their hotel room, staring at a plain, inconspicuous website with only a blank field in the middle, and a pass code that only throws up an error message. Eames is on the phone with Yusuf, who is sounding just as miffed that the code is not working. “The administrator must have changed it,” the man laments, and Eames feel the beginning of a headache.

“Hang him up,” Arthur says and then thinking better of it, grabs Eames’ phone and hangs up on the reporter himself. “Now call Ariadne. And put her on loudspeaker,” he says as he tosses the phone back at Eames.  

“How would she know the pass code?” Eames remarks, but presses on the call button anyway and place the phone on the laptop, while coming to perch on the corner of Arthur’s table.

“She won’t, but she will once she starts asking the right question.”

Ariadne picks up on the second ring, “Yo big guy. What's up?”

“Ariadne, we need a code to get into a website.”

“Arthur, you there too? And a code? Say no more. Give me a minute to open your spreadsheet.”

 _What spreadsheet?_ Eames mouths at Arthur, who only shrugs in response. The phone is still connected, and in the next moment, Eames could hear Ariadne mumbling to herself questions after questions, punctuated with the click-click sounds from a mouse or a keyboard. _The code is numerical - true. It is more than 10 numbers long - false. Its first digit is 1 - false. First digit is 2 - true._

She gets them the pass code in a little less than five. “You boys owe me one. Arthur, I need another spreadsheet, and Eames, you buy lunch when you’re back,” she says before hanging up.

“It works,” Eames says in awe as the page loads, and then reflecting on what just happened, glances quizzically at his partner. “Wait, did you really built Ariadne a spreadsheet just for hacking?”

Ariadne is omniscient, level ‘redacted’. _I can’t tell whether the Schrodinger’s cat will die in the next second, but if it’s dead, I would know._ As she has put it so aptly herself when they first met, if something’s a fact, a foregone conclusion, the girl would know _._ So Arthur’s right. Theoretically, Ariadne will not know the next Powerball numbers, but ask the right questions and there’s no code that she can’t crack.

“It’s a waste of her talent not to. How did you think I get into databases so easily?”

 _That explains so much about all those research_ , Eames thinks, but then something entirely irrelevant hits him. “Wait, this means you guys have been fornicating behind my back for how long now. Eight months?”

“You know I met her first, right.”

 _Oh so it was longer?_ The stab of irrational jealousy hits Eames hard in the guts. “But I am your partner,” he finds himself muttering irritably, before Arthur shushes him down. 

“We have got the page.”

“What is it?”

The man pauses for a brief moment, perusing the chat boxes to the left, a big empty box in the middle, a counter at the top and some fields and buttons on the right.

“It looks like some kind of online auction,” Arthur murmurs with a hint of uncertainty.

That catches Eames attention, and he bends forward to get a closer look at the chats, arm slung around the back of the armchair Arthur's sitting in. “You logged us in as Batman&Robin4eva?”

“Focus, Mr Eames, focus.”

As far as Eames could tell, the chats have been running wild just moments before, with commentators jumping in every second on how great tonight’s auction had been, how the goods were _top-notch_ , _Grade A, packs a mighty kick_ and _worth every single penny._

“You are right. They are definitely selling something here.”

“Something,” Arthur sighs. “Afraid we might need a bit more specificity. The question is what.”

They get their answer a few moments later when the central box fades from black to lit, and a video starts to play. The accompanying music, a piano piece, plays softly as the item up for bid is revealed on a rotating platform. An exquisite piece, intimate in all ways to man. Eames feels his breath catches, as the object, the _thing_ , catches light. Coral red, interwoven intricately with nets of crimson and pink, like a finely cut of rose marble.  

 _Shit._ He thinks.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

The description beneath is short and simple, written elegantly in cursive  -

 _An empath’s heart,_ it says.

At the top of the page, the counter starts to jump.

_One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand._

And in that precise moment as Eames stares at the flickering counter, all out of words, it is hard to know who is more crazy, him, or everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to squeeze in a Mad Max direct quote!  
> it's either that or some iterations of 'perhaps all of us go crazy a little at times' from Psycho.  
> btw i will be travelling over the next few days.  
> so the next chapt will have to wait till next weekend i think.


	7. Chapter 7

 

There is a heart in the video clip, and with each passing moment the numbers on the counter climbs higher. The scene is so surreal it takes Arthur a moment to comprehend what is unfolding before his eyes - an online auction for what, body parts?

He reaches for his phone almost instantaneously. “Yusuf,” he barks, too flipped out to bother with pleasantries. “We’ve got the pass code and we are in. Tell me, what am I seeing here?”

“You got in! How? Not cool - ”

“Yusuf focus,” he snaps. “They are playing a video of a heart here. And it’s not a diagram. So tell me, what.are.we.seeing.”

There’s the ear-stinging sound of someone wheezing heavily into the phone. “Oh man, oh man, man...” Yusuf’s voice is a squeaky chant that only gets on Arthur’s nerves. But before he could yell, or berate or somehow breach the fabric of reality to strangle the reporter with an optic fiber, Yusuf finally manages to pull himself together enough to squeeze out a full sentence, “I am so sorry man. I really didn’t think I will get it right.”

“What do you mean?”

“This... this whole black market on Psychs!” The man sounds as exasperated and bewildered as Arthur is, which is not the angle Arthur is looking for.

“Black market,” Arthur grounds out while setting up the program for the tracker to run. “We are going to need a lot more specificity than that.”

“Speci - ”

“Specificity, Yusuf. What’s this black market thing about?”

“Look, you guys are the cops. You know how the black market works. Illegal trades. Hushed money. It used to be trafficking in normal goods, antiques, exotic animals and all that. But this auction you guys are in now- ” he pauses to catch his breath, which unwittingly adds a dramatic flair to the next revelation. “Whole new different business. It sells organic stuff, like blood and skin, specifically, from Psychs.”

Arthur had guessed as much. But hearing it from someone else, still sends his blood running chill, “Why would anyone wants to buy… human parts?”

“Same logic as to why people would want to buy anything at all. The marketing! The hype!” Yusuf snaps as if it’s obvious. “Don’t you know? In East Africa, Albinos are hunted for body parts because some crazy ass witch doctors use them in their so call ‘witch crafts’. The same thing’s going on here. Body parts from Psych like teeth and hair? Brand them with all sort of magical properties, cleanse your vibe, increase your luck, retain your vitality, the bullocks, upload some testimonies on the dark web and boom! Instantly there’s a market.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Having body parts from Psychs won’t make anyone psychic,” Eames, who has been unnervingly silent during the whole exchange, grits out. The man’s face is a sheen of eerie paleness from the desk light, his eyes shifting aimlessly at anywhere but the screen. His hand, resting by the side of the table, is drawn into a tight fist, the knuckles white, as if he’s holding desperately on to something. Some thin threads of sanity perhaps.

Seeing that death like grip, destroys a little of something in Arthur, and his hand instinctively reaches out for Eames’. There’s a brief intermission where absolutely nothing happens. Just the warmth of skin, broken up by a map of protruding veins and the smooth troughs between fingers. Then he feels the muscle beneath relaxes a little. And in response, Arthur only gripes on tighter even as the voice from the other side of the line continues apathetically, “Thing is, no one knows for sure that’s true. And honestly no one cares. People believe what they believe and act on whatever they believe, be it at the expense of another.”

There’s a ping on his tracker, and reluctantly, Arthur removes his hand to fire a quick email to the detective with a request to trace the address. A precarious moment broken, he realizes later when he glances back to find the hand gone, and Eames pacing around restlessly in the room.

“Let’s backtrack,” Arthur finds himself saying, after one lingering glance. “If what you say is true. Where are they getting these… parts? Won’t there be like a bunch of missing people, missing Psychs?”

“No idea man. That’s what I don’t really get. My sources says it’d just be simpler stuff like blood and teeth and maybe sometimes a kidney. Not organs, like... like... hearts!” Yusuf says and Arthur realizes then that the pass code Yusuf gave must have been a fluke from the very beginning. The reporter knew he couldn’t crack it on his own and had decided to piggy ride on the FPMP instead. _Well played,_ Arthur thinks grudgingly. But a lesson well learned, he would take care never to dismiss someone in a ratty cardigan again.

“Man, I really got no clue. Maybe they are branching out. Bigger goods, bigger payouts.”

Arthur looks at the running figure on the counter. The numbers are on the high side of four digits by now. Still too little for the price of life, he thinks numbly, but he’s starting to get Yusuf’s point.

“I was just taking a shot in the dark when I asked you to check the site. I mean all of a sudden Psych turns up dead with their organs missing, what are the odds that these organs would turn up on an online auction? God, this! Man -” the reporter’s voice comes through tinnily over the buzzing static. “This scoop is huge.”

“Scoop...” Eames stops in his tracks, staring at the phone in disbelief before bursting out, livid. “Is that all you care about, really?”

Arthur snatches the phone off the table before the Psych could grab for it. “Yusuf,” he warns, tone, lethally sharp and packed full of intimidation. “The investigation is still ongoing. That means no leaks, no headlines until we give the go ahead. You copy?” He hangs up without waiting for a confirmation. If Yusuf and his editor are smart enough to publish a paper, they would know that no scoop is worth incurring the wrath of both the cops and the FPMP.

For now, his partner comes first.

“Eames, calm down,” he pushes himself out of the chair, and presses both hands gently against the man’s chest, still heaving from the earlier outburst.

“I am calm,” is the man’s stubborn response. “Still breathing and whole. In full possession of all my senses. Not in limbo, as you can tell.”

 _No,_ Arthur thinks, as he listens to the rambling on of broken phrases. Anyone who had spend the better part of a year minutely cataloging every bit of their partner’s actions could tell that _Eames is far from calm._

“You should sit,” He walks Eames backwards to the edge of the bed and presses down firmly on his shoulders. “I am fine. Really,” the man protests, but his resistance is halfhearted and the bed creaks under his weight. Running a hand wildly through his hair, the Psych gestures at the laptop forcefully. “We need to put a trace on that site.” His voice is composed, steady, a good act really, if one does not see the cracks under the illusion which threatens to crumble.

“It’s already been done,” Arthur says, and a hint of surprise flickers across the Psych’s face, then uneasiness, as he realizes that he had been too caught up with his turmoil to miss out on Arthur setting the tracker.  

“Oh Arthur. Arthur. Always covering every point don’t you?” Eames breaths out with a tiny bitter laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Be a dear and tell me you have a smoke on you as well?”

Arthur reaches for his side pocket and produces a small tin of mints which he offers to the Psych.

“Not exactly what I asked for,” Eames says dryly, but takes it anyway, fingers trembling as he pops a couple of them in his mouth.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Never knew you had a degree in psychology.”

If it was in the past, Arthur would have frown and back off at the obvious sting. But now feels different. Not just because of the jibe having less of a bite than usual. It’s just... something has been changing between them ever since this case started. Something that makes Arthur think it’s a good idea when he calls Eames name softly, crouches down and takes the tin away. “Talk to me,” he says.

Their eyes meet and something in Eames’ expression shifts, making him all unguarded, like a man at the end of his ropes, and Arthur yearn to press his hands to the side of Eames’ face, to smooth out all the creases of distress that marred the edges of those blue-green eyes. He reaches out slowly and intentionally, giving Eames an out which eventually did not take. When the man shows no sign of pulling away, Arthur traces his cheek, feeling the brush of pulse thrumming under his fingertips.

“Jesus, Arthur. What are you doing to me?” Eames breathes out shakily as Arthur thumbs on the thin line of scar in his brow. Frankly, Arthur wants to ask the same as well. If he’s being entirely truthful, this thing between them, _this tension_ that ebbs only to creep back in the solitude of the night, it has always been there simmering, all the way back since they’d first met. Only it has taken Eames falling into limbo, to pull the cloth off the proverbial elephant in the room. Now that it’s out in the open, everything is threatening to spill.

He rubs gentle circles into skin while Eames eyes press shut and then quiver wide open. “Chen, Davis. They are people. Psychs perhaps. But still people.” He says, throat raw, a tangle of emotions unraveling. “And they are selling us like meat.”

It’s a heart-rending statement that left Arthur all out of words for comfort. Before he’d even realized, he’s already leaning in, staring into the abyss of eyes that widens and slowly flares dark around irises. Between them a breath hitches, and as Arthur’s eyes flutters close, Eames tilts to catch his lips.

When they break apart, there’s awe in Eames’ eyes, even as he whispers helplessly in a broken voice that makes Arthur’s heart hurts all over, “We’re not meat. We are human.”

“I know. I know.” Arthur says, pressing gentle kisses against Eames’ temple, his eyes, the jut of his chin, before finding again the plushness of Eames’ lips.

It begins light, just a press of skin that breaks apart as soon as it touches, once, twice, each moment more lingering than the last, until Eames dug his hand into the back of Arthur’s head and deepens the kiss.

Later, when everything’s over, they would both come to agree that while Arthur was responsible for lighting the spark, Eames was definitely the one who doused them in kerosene and set everything alight.

There’s a mad scramble as they press their body tight against each other. A hand rests on his thighs and reels him in with a sharp tug, as he straddles Eames’ lap, fingers finding purchase on broad shoulders and corded muscles leading to neck. Eames tastes like the round little mints he still has in his mouth. They melt just a little faster when Arthur chases them down with his tongue and Eames moans, or he did. There’s no telling between the quickening of their breaths.

When Eames lies back on the bed, Arthur falls along on him, the fingers on his hip tight enough to leave bruises. As they rocked into each other fully clothed, they find a pace, that’s too fast, too rush, yet still not enough to sate the gnawing hunger within. When Eames slides a hand down his ass, a finger tracing between the crevice of the cheeks, Arthur buckles boneless, and would have almost mewled if not for the mouth that’s latched onto his lips. “God, you are sensitive,” Eames growls into his ears, as Arthur whimpers helplessly.

Arthur knows they should talk first. About things. Important things. But between Eames’ finger and those tantalizing bites on his lower lip, clouding his mind in a drunken haze, he finds himself caring less until the buzz of his phone broke through his fevered mind and his movement stilled.

“Leave it,” Eames tempts, voice husky by his ear, sending an immediate shiver through him and pumping him with want.  “Could be important,” he mutters in a voice so deep and broken that he could hardly recognize himself. That sudden self-awareness jolts him out of his reverie. _His phone. His work. His investigation. His partner. God. What the hell is he doing?_

He props himself up suddenly and looks down, chest still heaving. Eames looks wrecked. His mouth, an obscene red, swollen and slick with spit. Knowing that he’s the one who put that look on the Psych sends a rush of satisfaction through Arthur, followed closely by ghostly guilt when he realizes what he’s been doing, taking advantage of the man in his moment of weakness. That realization ruins the mood like a bucket of cold water.  

“I have to take the call.” He says as he pushes himself up.

A part of him wishes that Eames would pull him back down, but other than a small groan of protest, the man lets him go. All the more evidence, pointing out the folly of their engagement.

The buzzing has stopped, but a quick check shows that it was from the detective, and a corresponding message gives a quick rundown of the reason for the call. “They’ve got an address from the tracker and a warrant. They are heading in now.”

He types a response, which should have been quick and simple, but takes far too much time given the scrambled state of his mind. He didn’t dare to chance a look in Eames’ direction, but still can’t quite shut out the squeaks of the mattress and the rustling of feet against carpeted floor as the Psych paddles closer.

“We need to talk.” The voice strays far too close for comfort.

“I know,”  he says, voice steady despite the hammering in his heart. “But for now we have a killer to apprehend.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nash Macaulay is a gangling man with mid shoulder length hair that unfortunately border along the line of greasy instead of trendy. They found him in his house in the midst of uploading a feed of a disjointed tongue and his screen left open on the page of the online organ auction. The rest of the innards were found stored in a large freezer in the basement, later, after a wild chase which ends with the man cuffed and dragged into the police car. Arthur considers these evidences incriminating enough for a case as they silently observe the interrogation through the two-way glass.

“Something doesn’t add up,” Eames says as he draws near the light and leans his shoulder against the glass panel.

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks reflexively. Their trip down to the precinct had been awkward and cold. He never thought there will be a day where he misses the inane chatters that always seems to fill the emptiness of their drive.

“Nash here,” Eames taps on the glass in the direction of the forlorn looking man, “looks more like a nerd than a crazy murderer.” Since he’s been brought to the room, Macaulay had first vehemently denied the charges, asked for a lawyer, and is currently giving them the silent treatment.

“Most serial killer don’t look like one.”

“Still something doesn’t feel right,” Eames frowns in deep concentration. And Arthur can’t help the slight twirl of anxiety that twist in his guts. Precedence suggests if Eames felt that something isn’t right, it most likely isn’t. Still, protocols must be followed and he says it as much. “We need something more concrete than _feels_ to discount our current lead. Mr Eames.”

“Mr…” Even in the dim lighting, Arthur could see Eames visibly winces at his words. “So an hour after climbing me like a tree, we are now back to the cold treatment?”

Arthur could feel his cheeks flush at the insinuation. It isn’t wrong, Arthur did technically initiate the kiss which escalated quickly into a romp. But there’s no need for Eames to bring that up now, and he can feel himself bristling at the sheer un-professionalism of this conversation.  

“This has nothing to - ”

Whatever he’s about to say is cut by yet another timely buzz from Eames’ phone, the cheeriness of the ringtone distracting enough that Arthur loses steam in giving flame to their pending argument.  

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks as Eames let the ringtone rolls unanswered over them. “Might be important.” Then thinking better of it, adds, “Might be from Saito.”

That seems to do the trick.

“Bloody hell,” the Psych curses as he fumbles with the inlaid pocket of his coat and retrieves his phone. “These goddamned phones and their goddamned timings...”

“Who is it?”

“Bloody unknown caller,” Eames replies distractedly before swiping to answer by barking his name into the phone. Whoever’s on the line must have caught Eames attention, for the curses wither down and he spends the next few moment listening intently pausing and signaling to Arthur. “It’s Yusuf. I need to take this outside.”

The door creaks open, the temporary brightness forcing Arthur’s eyes to squint. The darkness and silence the follows come as a welcomed respite as he rests his forehead against chilled glass against the urge to bang against it. Repeatedly. As he has so recently learn, giving in to desire will only bring about messy outcomes. And things are already tangled enough as they stands.

“So what does Yusuf wants?” he asks as the door behind reopens.  

“Yusuf?” The vague reflection of the detective turns up in the glass, and Arthur clears his throat, “Nothing. How’s the lab report?”

“That’s the thing,” the detective says with a bewildered expression. “Those organs we found in Macaulay’s apartment. Lab says they are not human.”

 _If not human, then what? Alien?_ That’s the first skeptical thought that enters Arthur’s mind, _b_ efore logic takes over, and he plucks the report out of the detective’s hand and strides out the room to interrupt the interrogation.

“Your operation is a fraud,” he says as he dumps the report on the desk right in front of Macaulay. “You are selling animal organs and passing them off as Psychs’.”

The weaselly look on Macaulay, confirms Arthur’s suspicion. “Good to get that cleared up, can I go now? Pretty sure there’s no laws against selling animal parts and passing them off as humans. Those people buying them are the sick ones you should be on to.”

“Not so fast Nash.” Arthur pulls a chair and sits unperturbed. “We could still charge you for obstruction of justice.”

“Obstruction of justice?” The man seethes. “What the hell did I do? I am just selling parts of pigs.”

“Depends. Are you covering for the actual killer?”

“God no,” Macaulay protests as Arthur shots him an icy stare which he’s been told quite often, is extremely unnerving. It appears to work on Macaulay as well, who stutters and just fesses up straight. “Look I have nothing to do with the killing. I just saw the news, and thought it a great chance to rake in cash. I mean how much money can you bring in with blood and hair? But eyeballs, and hearts? People will pay big bucks for those stuff.”

“So you sold these fake organs, under the pretense that they were from the victims?”

“Yeah… I mean the news lend credibility to the goods. Honestly, I was going to quit. This was going to be my last big sale...”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and rolls his eyes as he steps out of the interrogation room. This whole sting has been a great waste of time. Sure they could pin something on Macaulay if they want to, but it’s going to be difficult to get consumer fraud charges to stick especially if his buyers choose to remain silent. Eames was right as usual. Speaking of the man, he’s been gone for an awful long time.

Arthur turns straight back into the dark room. It comes up empty. A quick call to Eames' phone, went unanswered and ends up with mechanic voice of the phone operator. 

Feeling a creeping sense of dread, he stalks down the corridor looking for an impression of a salmon shirt and the tails of brown linen coat, and rounds up with nothing. He runs out of the building and onto the street, feeling disoriented by the sudden burst of streetlights, before composing himself and calling up Yusuf.

“Where is he?”

“Who?” The reporter’s voice sounds muffled, barely audible as the sound of cars and honks zooms by the street.

“Agent Eames! You called him just moments ago.”

“What? No I didn’t - ”

He hangs up before Yusuf could get to the end of his sentence. Shit. He runs through his hair, feeling lightheaded and short of breath.

 _He is gone._ He thinks numbly as his legs threaten to give. _Eames is gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this chapter, I was worried they’d never get it on until the epilogue. But somehow, that make out scene find its own way into the plot. So yay. 
> 
> btw travelling over the weekend again. Next update, most likely next weekend.


	8. Chapter 8

 

_**13 years ago** _

_It was a typical warm summer day. Where he lived, that had meant the ever-present cries of cicadas, the sizzling heat that emanates from the bitumen road like steam and the sweat that clings to skin no matter how many showers one takes._

_The house they shacked up in sat at the end of the street. A small single storey with an ample of green. They had planned for a garden when they first moved in, but after planting a few random seeds, never got around to the rest of it. Now, boosted by the long hours of daylight, grasses and weeds crawled rampant, creeping all over the small pathway leading to their door._

_It wasn’t a reputable house, definitely not according to the standards laid out by the HOA. But it was something close enough to home. Something they had built for themselves from whatever they could salvage before flying across the big old pond. And if the HOA ever drop by, the Jack Union they fly on their window and their Queen’s English should have been considered more than enough to compensate for the posh quota required in this neighborhood._

_His day had ended like any other, after a slow shift at the local Starbucks concocting flavored caffeinated drinks for locals well on their way to a lifelong reliance on insulin. The pay was crap, but the work was much preferred over frying meat patties at the local greasy spoon. That, and the air conditioning._

_It wasn’t that he need the money. But at seventeen, he believed himself too old to ask for pocket change for a road trip._

_He had barely removed his sneakers, tossing his brown duffel onto the kitchen counter, before a strange sensation crawled over him. Like a thousand prickly needles that drags across his skin and send the back of his neck tingling. His head snapped towards the door - it was empty as it should be. Strange._

_Blinking away his uneasiness, he ambled back to the kitchen, intending on fixing himself a pbj sandwich to curb the insatiable hunger that seemed to persist almost all day long for blokes his age._

_Slapping two toasts on a plate and conflicted between marmalade and strawberry before settling on both, he set about digging through the jars when the sensation hit him again. The lightheadedness. The ringing in his ears. That nagging feeling in his guts that something was amiss._

_He slammed his palms against the counter top, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. He raised his head, eyes spinning. He was pretty sure it had been day just moments earlier, but now everything’s dyed with a grayish tint that ripples with every little movement. What the bloody hell? He thought as he struggled against the onslaught of dread, trying to keep his focus on a faraway spot of light fading to a tiny pinprick._

_“Hey… Hey! Boy! You alright?”_

_There was a light shining straight in his eyes and a head-splitting voice shouting right in his ears._

_He waved the light away from his face. Or he think he did, for it was gone in the next moment, replaced by a mass of purplish void that followed his vision. “Not…  a boy - ” His voice was raspy and his tongue felt like a dry leaf in his mouth. “Turnin... eighteen.”_

_“Still a minor then,” a voice said. “Whatcha doing walking around barefooted in the neighborhood?”_

_He looked down at his feet in confusion. The voice was right. He was barefooted. And seeing how his toes barely responded when he tried to wriggle them against the rough gravel, had been so for quite a while._

_“Where am I?” He asked, looking up in confusion at a pair of concerned eyes clad in a black uniform, the flashing of blue and red lights parked a short distance away._

_“You don’t remember? You’ve been wandering around here for the past hour. Someone called in a dispatch.”_

_“What do you mean for the past hour?” He scanned his surrounding in disbelief. The houses looked foreign and nowhere near the street he’d been living in for the past four year. Something of the bewilderment he felt must have shown for the cop looked him in the eyes and said solemnly, “Son, whatever you’re smoking, it ain’t worth it. Those things ain’t good for your brain. Believe me, I have seen enough bad cases to last a lifetime.”_

_“I wasn’t smoking anything,” he protested weakly, still trying to grapple with the circumstances.  His mum had made him promised to stay clean of any other “more illicit” substance in exchange for a free pass to the liquor cabinet. In her opinion, it’s fine to pick one’s own poison provided its kept to one._

_“So you’re telling me, that past hour was you doing what, sleepwalking?”_

_“Honestly I have no idea what just happened,” he answered uncertainly. “One minute I was making a sandwich at home, then poof, I’m here. What’s the time now anyway? I need to get back.”_

_He pat at his pocket distractedly and unsurprisingly turned up with nothing. Turning to the cop and affecting his most miserable tone which wasn’t too difficult a feat at the moment, he asked, “Can I get a ride with you?”_

 

* * *

 

Eames wakes up with a throat that feels roughened with sandpaper and a head full of cotton. The air around him feels chill and saturated with the gagging smell of bleach. As he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of white lights overhead, he notices that the ceiling he’s under looks sterile and unfamiliar. Not something he’d recognized from the up class hotel they are staying at for sure, and definitely not from the dark room he was in when he received the call.

The call. That jolts his memory. He distinctly recalls receiving a call from someone. Someone had instructed him to head out of the building alone and onto the street. And he … he had strangely complied. Had even lied to Arthur to get away alone, waiting by the street till a black sedan drove by. Then…

Eames pinches his forehead and groans. The memories from the ride itself was a numbing mess which he could barely recall other than a stinging pain and a voice which he can’t exactly ignore.  He tries to stand, feeling momentarily relieved that his legs are free to move, but a voice, the same voice he’d heard in the car, sends his stomach swooping in free fall.

“Please sit,” it says, and though he’d want very badly to cut and run just mere seconds ago, Eames finds himself reflexively plopping back down on the chair. “What’s the bloody hell…” he frowns, craning his neck towards the voice for a better look. The corridor that stares back at him is as black as an abyss. “What did you do to me?” he shouts into the void.  

“Just a little jolt. Nothing damaging.” Something was spit out from the depths of the shadows, landing a couple of feet away. A stun gun. Well that explains his headache. But it doesn’t explain why Eames can’t seem to move, sitting still now even though the numbness from before had receded.

“It was either this or a blow to your head. But I don’t condone violence.” The sound of approaching footsteps echoes within the enclosure. “And trauma can be so very detrimental to the integrity of the brain. It’s a predicament I try to avoid with my subjects.”

As the figure emerges from the shadows, face reflecting on every mirrored surface in the room, Eames blurts out in surprise, “It’s you.” The face he’s acquainted with only smiles in response, and Eames feels his shoulders tensing. “What do you want?”

“Only a little cooperation. I want to know what it is you can do,” his captor says, his mannerism so very polite despite the chills it sent down Eames’ spine as a nasty realization dawns upon him, “You’re the one who’s been killing Psychs.”

“No,” Robert Fisher replies demurely, pale blue eyes staring unflinchingly at Eames. “I am the one who’s been treating them.”

“By killing them?” The blinding rage overrides Eames’ sensibility for a moment and his hands immediately reach for the lapels of the doctor’s coat, falling short as Fisher takes a swift step backwards, all the while speaking in that blasted monotonous voice of his, “Agent Eames do calm down and please do keep your hands to yourself.”

Again, Eames complies unwittingly, both hands coming to rest on the arms of the chair. Seriously, he stares at his hands dumbly , what’s going on?

“Death was an unfortunate side effect. But I assure you, they ended their lives as human, exactly as they wanted to,” Fisher chides softly as he straightens his coat.

“The hell are you saying?”

“I see you haven’t been listening,” Fisher sighs in disappointment. “Being psychic is a curse. You have no idea the life Tommy’s been through, seen as a freak by his very own parents. And Carlos,” he shakes his head sadly. “He can’t even recognize the faces of the people around him. Just see them as auras, you can imagine what that did to his social life. They wanted to be cured of their afflictions. You have to understand, they begged me to heal them.”

Eames knows about Davis and Chen, and could possibly guess at the trouble Carlos’ face-blindness is causing him, but they wouldn’t have traded their lives just to be rid of their Psyche. No one would. That doesn’t make any sense. “What did you do?”

“I helped them. It’s easy actually, once I know what I am looking for,” the doctor strolls to the cabinet right in front of Eames and slides it open. And there they are, sitting neatly on the shelf, a row of glass bottles, each affixed with a tiny handwritten note.

“Jesus.” Eames whispers, feeling nauseated as he stares at the pair of brown eyes drifting in a dull, yellowish liquid. Those missing organs, they are here. Displayed like those exhibits he’d seen in museums, an ultimate insult to the dead. “What the hell are you doing with them?” he asks, horrified.

“To study of course. Learn how they tick. All for the good of medical advancement,” Fisher peers at the collection in fascination, running a fingertip over their rims lovingly. He frowns a little when spots Eames’ expression in the glass. “You don’t believe me. You think I am insane,” he mused. “That’s... regrettable. Perhaps it’s best to show you the results of my work,” the doctor says ruefully and lifts his hand . For a brief moment nothing happens, then the sound of metal clanging emanates from the desk beside him and a drawer pulls open, as if ejected by an invisible force.

As Eames stares on in surprise, a scalpel drifts upright from the drawer, floating in air for a brief second as if suspended by an invisible string, its metal blade catching light ominously. Then with a curl of his fingers, it traverses across the small space in between, straight into Fisher’s hand.  

“Low level telekinesis,” Fisher murmurs as he toys with the scalpel. “A childhood of exorcism and corrective therapies all because of one small birth defect in the circuitry of his brain. Poor Tommy.”

“You are a Psych,” Eames says in disbelief.

“Surprising, isn’t it? I wasn’t even aware of what I am. Not until Carlos.” Even as occupied as he is with his current predicament, it’s difficult for Eames to miss the vehemence in Fisher’s voice when he mentions Carlos’ name.  “He might not be able to recognize faces, but he sure can identify a psych. He was going to go to the press with my… my afflictions...”

“That’s why you kill him?” Eames snaps. “All because Carlos was going to out you to the press?”

“It was an accident!” Fisher snarls, slamming the scalpel down on the table. “I only place my hand over his mouth because he was making such a racket. I was going to calm him down and send him off. But when I look right into his eyes that’s when I finally see it.” He turns his pale blue eyes at Eames’ with an expression which can only be described as unadulterated joy.

“It’s his eyes, they are abnormal!” The doctor gestures forcefully as if he’s making an important revelation. Of what, Eames does not know. But the next statement from the doctor, draws his attention. “And I have to take a closer look.”

“You understand don’t you, why I have to do it? Why I have to take their organs,” Fisher says as he takes a hesitating step towards Eames. “That knowledge. I have to own… no, that’s not right...” Fisher seizes, clutching his head as if in pain, before coming back to himself with a shiver. “Yes that’s it,” he murmurs in an disembodied voice as he stares at Eames, “I can cure my patients with that knowledge. I can cure you.”

“I am not your patient,” Eames grounds out, pressing flat against the back of the chair, as if that would put some precarious distance between him and the doctor.

“You forgot,” Fisher tsk-tsks. “I already know what makes Carlos ticks, and by extension, I can see your aura. You’re a Psych and you already feel miserable about it.”

As Robert Fisher turns his attention to him, Eames’ heart hammered in fear, heels pressing against the floor. But even as Fisher inches closer, Eames could not move away from the chair despite his obvious struggles

“Nifty isn’t it? Compulsion. Pity, it doesn’t work on your partner. He seems immune. Non-Psychic - is that what you call people like him? He is definitely something to look into. But that’s for another time, for now I have you.” Fisher rambles on excitedly as he pulls on a pair of disposable gloves, his voice tinged with a frenzied quality. Eames thinks he feels a slight breeze as the scalpel appears once more, resting on the doctor’s palm with an innocuous sleight of hand .

“So what is it you can do? Is it something with your brain?” Fisher peers curiously at Eames forehead as if deciding on a style of cut. “Or is it to do with your heart?” Despite the chilliness, Eames hands feel clammy with sweat, as they clench and un-clench by his sides, waiting for the right moment. “Perhaps it’s everything. Guess I may to switch to a bigger knife for that.”

As Fisher leans forward, laying the blade against his scalp, Eames’ arms lashes out in one last frantic attempt. He caught Fisher by the face, but the man looks barely fazed even as he lays with his back on the floor, cradling his cheek. “Stop resisting me Agent. This procedure requires surgical precision.”

Eames looks on in abject horror as he feels the fight seeping out of him, losing precious time all while Fisher dallies getting back on his feet. But right before the doctor could make another attempt on Eames, a lean figure jumps out of the shadows and subdued him back onto the ground in a blink. For a brief moment Eames wonders if he’s hallucinating, too caught up in his fears, but even in all of his past fantasies, he’d never been able to conjure that well-clad ass so realistically perfect. That’s when he knows that Arthur is here for real.

His partner makes quick work of Fisher then, binding both hands and feet together behind the doctor’s back with white zip ties. Eames would have laughed at how the tables had turned with the doctor looking exactly like a sacrificial offering bound for a roast, if he wasn’t so busy swooning at a man so capable in his element.

“You alright?” Arthur looks up after checking for the tightness of the zips, frowning a little as his eyes rake over Eames, checking for signs of injury that would give him more causes to engage in some enforcement brutality. Despite the shiver that ran down his spine, Eames thinks he manage to school his face into one of neutrality as he gives what he hopes to be a reassuring smile with a thumbs up for added measure. “Are you concussed or sedated?” Arthur asks hesitatingly as he stares at the thumb. Okay maybe Eames’ attempt had turned out to be more of a floppy grin. Still, he’s too relieved at the moment to care about appearances.

“How did you even find me?” he asks as Arthur picks his way towards him carefully through the tangled mess of limbs on the floor.  

“I have trackers on you,” the man’s response is as muted as always.  

“How? I never notice… And did you say trackers? Like more than one?”

“Well, Mr Eames, I have to make sure that I won’t lose you,” Arthur mouth twitches in a failed attempt to hide his smile, and Eames can’t help but feels his knees weakens at the sight. “Can you stand? Or did he do something else?”

“Well he…” And then it hits him, the stark realization that he had missed out on something extremely important, he looks past Arthur’s shoulders then to see the zip ties sliced neatly on the floor and Fisher up on his feet lunging at them with a blade in his hand. “Look out!”

Arthur, blessed him, dodges with only a small nick to his sleeves and catches Fisher’s wrists in a bone-popping grip. Only inches away from Eames’ nose, the blade falls harmlessly with a clatter on the ground. Even in his predicament, Fisher’s laughing maniacally, not at all bothered by a twisted wrist. “It’s your turn now.” He looks pointedly at Eames with malicious glee and Eames’ head spins with a foreboding dread. “Stab the agent. Stab him.”

Even as quick as Arthur had been, it wasn’t enough, and a look of surprise flickers over his face as he stares down at the protruding knife from his abdomen. Jesus. Eames looks on vacantly as Arthur clasps over the hand of his attacker, Eames’ hand , bending over, face scrunched in visible agony as the first dye of red trails along the edge of the blade and drips onto the floor, so vibrantly crimson like a splatter of art.

“It’s fine,” Arthur says with a pained smile as Eames’ hands tremble from the vehement disgust he felt at what he’d done. “It’s going to fine. Just don’t pull it out.” All Eames can do is to stare blankly at Arthur. Even in his distress, the man had seek to comfort Eames first. God, and Eames had stabbed him. He feels his breaths quicken involuntarily and he can’t think. He thinks he is saying something, and he thinks Arthur is saying something too, mouth forming into words Eames could barely even hear. “Eames. It’s going to be okay. Just focus.”

Out from the corner of his eye he could see Fisher standing back on his feet. But Eames couldn’t react. Everything around him seems to be moving so very slowly. Even when Fisher falls back down seizing, and Mal appears like an apparition behind him, stun gun in hand. Mal! he controls mind with his voice, Eames thinks he shouted. But Mal hadn’t bothered to look in his direction, just crouches down and sticks a syringe into Fisher’s neck like a boss. Immediately Eames’ head feels way clearer and he jumps to his feet to help Arthur to the ground.

“It’s going to be fine,” Arthur keeps saying even though his face has now taken on a bluish tint, and the blood keeps seeping out from beneath Eames’ hands as he applies pressure to the wound. “Hush now darling,” he wipes the sweat away from Arthur’s forehead with his sleeves. “Mal’s calling for an ambulance. I’m fine. You’re fine. Everything’s going to be alright. So please -” he begs. “Stay with me.”

 

* * *

 

_There were a bunch of police cars parked haphazardly in that small street leading to his house. A cacophony of red and blue lamps that lit the night like a huge campfire or more like a disco ball._

_“What’s going on,” he heard the cop asked after rolling down a window for an approaching colleague. “Armed robbery. Neighbor heard a gunshot and called it in. What you've got in the back?”_

_“Nah, just a lost, penniless kid. Offered to send him home.”_

_Normally Eames would have bristled at being called a kid, but his attention was elsewhere. The door on his porch was wide open, and police crawled all round his yard, trampling on overgrown weeds._

_“Anyone injured?”_

_“We shot the perp down. Bleed out on the spot.”_

_A gurney rolled out of his door, hurried along by the paramedics._

_“The woman living there was shot as well. Thank god her kid wasn’t around…”_

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s sleeping soundly, still heavily sedated from the operation, the sound of beeping from his heart monitor, a steady thrum in the background. Eames used to hate that sound, had spent months listening to it as he sat by his mother’s bed, hoping and praying futilely for her to open her eyes.

He didn’t damage anything vital. The doctor had said. And despite having left church a long time ago, Eames sends a prayer of thanks to whoever’s out there listening. Still he can’t help but worry as he stares at Arthur’s profile from beside the bed, listening intently to the light snoring. Without the armor of his suit, dark hair all loosed and curled from sleep, the man looks younger than Eames had ever seen.  

“You should go home.” Ariadne says from behind him. “His family will be arriving soon. And frankly speaking you will scare his sister.”

Ariadne’s right. Eames stares down at his shirt, the blotches of blood still clearly visible, though having now oxidized to a rusty brown. He haven’t looked in the mirror since washing his hands, but if he looks as terrible as he feels, Arthur’s baby sister is in for an early Halloween.

“I can give you a ride, but you are not going to sit in my car with whatever you are wearing now. Here, I bought you a T-shirt.”

It lands on his head, and Eames pulls at it, too tired to be annoyed with Ariadne’s usual antics. He didn’t bother looking at the tag, just changes straight into it. The size is of course an exact match. Nothing less can be expected from Ariadne. Immediately he feels much less weary, the clean cotton, a comfort on his skin. “You’re a good friend,” he says and he means every single word of it.

“I know. But the price's still going into your tab,” and Eames knows she means every single word of it as well. They both broke into mirroring smiles.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks as he pulls on the seat belt in her red Chevy. 

“I would say no. But you are going to anyway.”

Outside of work, Ariadne hates being made use of like an all-knowing encyclopedia but that question had been plaguing his mind all day long, and truth be told, it’s driving Eames a little crazy. He takes in a deep breath. “Do you think Arthur likes me?”

“Seriously?” Ariadne makes a show of rolling her eyes so far back that Eames could see only the whites. “He took a knife for you and you’re still asking me that.”

“No I mean… Does he like, like like me?” He cringes as soon as the words left his mouth. 

“Like like,” the omniscient deadpans. “I could swear I was just speaking to a thirty something. When did you go back in time and turned nine?”

“It’s just... You know how I can always get some kind of read on people, how to talk and act just to push their buttons or get them to like me.” He frowns, thinking of a better way to explain it. "It's like how I always know when to stay the hell out of Saito's way when he's on his silent rampage and when you are on your ice cream eating binge."

"I don't binge -"

"But Arthur- " He reflects on Fisher's words. _Non-Psychic,_ the doctor had said. "It's like he's immune. I have no idea what's going on in his mind the whole bloody time. Every time I'm with him, I can't tell if I am doing something right or am I just annoying him. Is he only tolerating me, because we have to work together? Or is that frown just his default expression. Are we waltzing ahead, or do we just keeping going two steps back. And seriously what's with that thing back in the hotel!"

He pauses to catch his breath, before turning to Ariadne, "So what do you think?"

"I think you should really tell me more about that thing back in the hotel for me to give you an informed response."

Eames only scowls in response and Ariadne, likewise, gives him an answering stink eye. “Look I have no fucking idea how Arthur thinks of you. But if you want my honest opinion, I can help you with that,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. “Agent Eames. Stop relying on your stupid hunches, pussy up and fucking ask him out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult chapter to write. Exposition after exposition, cliches after cliches. Self-doubts. Sighs… 
> 
> In case you are wondering, and I am pretty sure I didn’t make it clear enough - i tried :’( but writing is hard - the perp, spoiler alert**, has this ability call Intuitive Aptitude. And if you think it sound super familiar, that’s because Sylar from Heroes had it too. It’s a blatant ripped off!!! I’m sorry!!! but the idea just fits!!! 
> 
> And I admit I am an extremely lazy writer. I tend not to write stuff that don’t keep the plot moving. But i have this whole backstory in my mind for all four victims. So Carlos is a college student plus activist who’s going to write a report on discriminatory practices against psychs. When he went undercover, he met with the perp and then got killed. Chen just wants to write her thesis, but her neighbour had a bad breakup and she keeps getting all those murderous vibes from her. As for Miller, he’s an insurance agent who has been using his talent to sell his products. He’s happy with his life and family actually. Which you can’t really tell from what the perp’s saying. But then again, perp’s an unreliable narrator on the brink of insanity.
> 
> will be busy next week, so hopefully update by weekend


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur’s nose itches, but it’s not annoying enough to have him rouse from his slumber purposefully just to scratch at it. The hand patting on his cheek though is another matter. When he edges his face away from the offending touch, he hears the telling beeps of the heart monitor, and realizes he’s now too awake to go back to sleep. Reluctantly he cracks open an eye and squints against the light to greet his visitor.

“Wakey, wakey,” the familiar voice says and Arthur sighs, eyes falling back close. “Gosh Mal…” 

“Nah huh,” the precog snaps her fingers impatiently above his face to hold his attention. “You falling back asleep is not how this conversation goes. Try again.”

“Mm tired... ” And it’s true. Now that he’s on his un-merry way to wakefulness, Arthur could feel an accompanying weariness, heavy and dull like leads tied to his limbs. He simply could not muster the wit needed for his usual conversations with the precog.

“Fine, just this once then. In my dreams you were supposed to say,” she then affects an insulting imitation of Arthur’s tone,“ ‘Mal I told you to stay in the car! Why did you leave? And what did you do to Fisher?’ ” So go ahead and ask those questions.”

Arthur groans but plays along. Partly because residuals traces of his sedative has made him weak to the bullying of Mallorie Miles; and also, Mal will never let what’s been decided as fate rolls by unfulfilled. “Mal I told you to remain in the car, why did you leave? And what have you done to Fisher?” He deadpans. 

“Why?” Mal says with a curl to her well-painted lips. “Because a woman has to fight for her love, and I didn’t poison Fisher Jr if that’s what you are thinking. Just inject some of my anti-psych prescription in him.” 

Mal’s words combined with the cocktail of drugs in his bloodstream, give Arthur pause. And as he turns the words over in his head, something of the weirdness he feels must have shown, for Mal only chuckles and shakes her head. “Calm yourself cherry boy. Your chastity remains safe from me. It’s not your skirt I’m after.”

“I am not… ”

There’s a knock on the door, and of all people Arthur expects to walk through it, the detective is definitely not one of them, “We brought a fruit basket,” the man announces and then appears to fumble getting the basket through the door, until Mal held it open for him. Absent-minded as usual, he only notices her presence much later, the immediate smile that beams up the detective’s face makes him look much younger and less grumpier, and also threatens to tear the very fabric of reality. 

Arthur's jaws slacks open. 

“Agent Miles,” the detective says, face still affixed with that smile that gets dopier with each passing second. “I am Cobb. You remember? Detective Cobb. We met the other day at the scene. The one with Fisher. Two days ago actually. Just here today to visit Agent Arthur, and well you are here and all and… what a surprise.” He ends his ramblings with a breathless whisper that almost made Arthur gag.

“Detective Cobb, of course. Glad to see you again. And please call me Mal, all my friends do that.” Mal tend to speaks with this sultry tone that no doubts stems from her French upbringing, and this had the unfortunate side effect of making every single sentence from her seems like a flirt which then got Arthur all confused, since Mal definitely knew how immune Arthur would have been to her charm. Arthur couldn’t believe how wrong he had been. Any conversation between them had definitely not measured up to this… this train wreck. The detective’s definitely putty when he replies with a “Sure Mal, call me Dom.”

Her answering smile is a display in radiance that’s blinding even to Arthur. “Arthur, I will go fetch your family,” she says. “And see you around Dom.” She leaves with a parting smile which must have captivated Cobb’s full attention for he only waves dazedly at her retreating figure with a “Bye Mal…”

Arthur clears his throat, and when that doesn’t work, asks instead, “Detective what brings you here?” 

“Mmm? Oh, oh!” The man seems to remember himself, and shoves his hand into his pocket. “Nothing. Like I said, I’m just here to pass along the get-well gift from our precinct.” He pauses, then shuffling on his feet adds, “Now that the case is assumed by the FPMP, we can’t do it officially, but still we would like to thank you and your partner for catching the perp. Where’s agent Eames by the way?”

Of course it’d take an unassuming third-party to highlight the burning question that’s been on Arthur’s mind. He had seen neither head nor tail of the psych since he has woken. According to Ariadne, now that the FPMP has taken full authority over the case, Saito’s making the man work his ass off covering for Arthur. Not that Eames’ absence isn’t a welcomed relief. Given his current drugged state, Arthur isn’t ready to have a honest conversation with the man over that  _ thing _ between them.

“He’s busy with the case, ” he says. 

“Surely it couldn’t have taken that much time,” the detective says thoughtlessly, which if Arthur were to be entirely honest, does stings a little. “Kidnapping an investigating agent? That’s cause enough to deem the case shut. Although seeing it’s Senator Fisher’s son whose medical malpractice caused all these death, there might be complications pressing charges. That’s why the heads agree to pass it onto the FPMP. It’s simply too hot to handle.”  

The detective’s musing latches on Arthur’s attention, and he frowns reflexively. “Medical malpractice?” 

“Right,” the detective nods absently. “Everything is out of the press for now. But something apparently went wrong with the drugs Fisher’s been prescribing. He is killing the patients to cover up his mistakes... ” 

That line of reasoning doesn’t sound right, Arthur thinks. In fact it sounds pretty ridiculous, killing patients to cover an error for drug prescription sounds like an overkill. Any discerning investigator would have picked up on that, but it seems to have occur to Cobb only right now. The detective frowns for a moment before shaking his head as if to shrug a thought off. “That came out a little off. I swear it makes much more sense when your boss, you know, scary Asian guy, explains it to us. Anyway it’s hands off for us police now. So maybe I shouldn’t even comment on it.”

Mal comes in right at the moment then, and all thoughts of the case left Arthur’s mind as his sister pounces on him, landing squarely on his wound. 

 

* * *

 

“Arthur what are you doing here? You were supposed to be resting,” Saito says bemusedly when he spots Arthur back in office. 

“It’s already been more than a week. Figured I could at least come in and finish up the report on the investigation.” While unlikely to be getting the jump on more serial killers, Arthur did feel healed enough to cut down his painkillers to once a day and be back to work. Frankly speaking though, it was the boredom that actually drove him back. 

“Suit yourself,” his boss shrugs. “Agent Eames had already drafted the report. The content’s fine. Though it could definitely use your help for a review. For an Englishman, his spelling is, to put it bluntly, elementary.” The phone on the desk rings then. Saito glances at the ID and sends an apologetic smile at Arthur while picking up the receiver. It’s as good a dismissal as any from the man. 

As Arthur left Saito’s glass box of an office, he sees his partner from across the floor. Eames’ toothy grin when he looks up and spots Arthur, is wide enough to shows the bottom row of badly crooked teeth. The Psych looks a little rumpled around the edges and a little peaky, but other than the hint of bags under his eyes, looks none the worse for wear since his kidnapping ordeal. Just seeing him hale and hearty, convinces Arthur that the past few days of bed rest had all been worth it. 

“You didn’t tell me you will be back today,” Eames approaches and pull him into a surprising hug, all the while taking care to avoid pressing on Arthur’s wound.

_Your partner’s hugging you._ Arthur’s mind spins. _Stop being awkward and hug him back_. But his arms refuse to obey, hanging limply by his side. The window of opportunity soon gone when Eames pulls back, although he still held on to Arthur’s shoulders.

“It was unplanned,” Arthur replies, voice betraying none of the anxiety he’s feeling. “I felt better and thought I would drop by.”

Eames gives him a once over, and whatever he sees must have pleased him, for the man breaks into another of his grin, “It’s good to have you back,” he says. “Here, let’s get you up to speed.” 

They took to one of the meeting rooms, dropping by Eames’ desk along the way to pick up a printout of the report. Saito’s right, Eames did have horrible spelling, most of which could have been picked up by a spellcheck honestly. Still that wasn’t what caught onto Arthur’s attention. He looks up at Eames, sitting perched on the desk beside him, sipping gingerly on his tea. 

“What’s this?” he asks with a pointed look at the report in his hand.

“The official report of the investigation, signed and sealed by the FPMP.”

Arthur frowns. Much of the story in it had corroborated with that of the detective, with a few more embellishments. It left out the most important detail though. 

Though he had only interrupted midway, Arthur’s pretty sure that, Robert Fisher himself had been a psych. And not just a low level one, the doctor had been strong enough to have mind-controlled Eames into stabbing him. And none of that had been mentioned by even a single line in the report Arthur had just read.

“This report’s not going to fly with the jury, some of the circumstances just don’t make sense,” Arthur observes dryly, but Eames only smiles as if that’s exactly what he expects Arthur to have said. “You’re right. But here’s the thing. There’s not going to be a trial.” 

Arthur swallows as he takes in the implication of what Eames is saying. “But he’s Senator Fisher’s son,” he argues. If the issue is cranked up by the Senator, the whole of FPMP could be implicated in an obstruction of justice scandal. 

“The Senator won’t breathe a single word on it,” Eames says calmly. “Our boss had made sure of that.”

Arthur sits back in his chair in numb silence. It appears the FPMP may have a much stronger influence in the White House that what he’d previously thought, and Arthur’s not sure how he feels belonging to such an organization. 

“What’s the unofficial story then?” He signs and rubs at his eyes, hands twitching for a cup of caffeine which his surgeon had warned him against for his wounds to heal. 

“Intuitive Aptitude,” Eames say. “That’s what they call Robert Fisher’s talent. They think it allows him to understand on some encompassing level, how other psychs works, and develop those talent for himself. Which is why he could use Davis’s telekinesis and Carlos’ extrasensory perception. For the compulsion, we think he got it from Miller.”

“So that’s why he kill them? To steal their talents?”

“Theoretically, the lab thinks it’s possible to learn them without the need to kill. One of the shrink thinks that Carlos’ death may have triggered something repressed in Fisher. He thinks it’s could be related to Fisher Jr’s relationship with the senator.” Eames pauses. “I think he may be onto something. Robert Fisher, when we saw him, was clearly unhinged. Though he claims to be healing them, it was found that Ben Miller had never even been his patient. Fisher just happened to be in the restaurant where Miller was meeting a prospective client. And somehow could not repress his urge to kill.”

That explains why the doctor had Eames kidnapped. Not to throw the FPMP off his trails as what Cobb had believed, but simply to satisfy his urge to kill again. Arthur shudders to think what would have happened to Eames had Arthur been a minute later. 

“So what happens to Robert Fisher now?” 

“Twenty-four hour solitary confinement in a secure facility, and an electronic collar around his neck that pumps anti-psych drugs within him every eight hour. Don’t look at me like that...” Eames says with a wryly smile. “It was too far up for me to have any say in the matter. And to be honest. I don’t think they have much choice other than to keep him like leashed and drugged. Personally, I think he’s too dangerous to even be released anywhere without anti-psy.”  

Talks of abuse aside, Arthur knows Eames is right. Still, that doesn’t mean he has to like it the idea of government bureaus holding prisoners without any hope of release. 

They sit in silence as Arthur ponders the recent turn of events and Eames finishes his tea, resting the cup on the table. “So…” The psych says, bringing his hands together in a clasp. “That was work. Between you and me, I think there’s another conversation we need to have.”

_ Right.  _

The conversation which Arthur’s been sort of dreading, yet obsessively, spent each minute of his bed rest last week, playing it out in his head. So much so, that he’s pretty sure he’d already have all his lines and possible responses scripted. There had been a few scenarios where he’d indulged - him bringing Eames to visit his mother’s grave, nabbing up more wrongdoers along the way. But then many more others which were downright depressing. 

 

Now, outside the fictitious world of his imagination, with real life Eames sitting across him and leveling steely blue eyes at him, Arthur thinks he has always known where the scales tips in favor. 

 

“I’m sorry.” he blurts out. “It was a mistake.”

 

The silence stretches between them, thick and Suffocating. “A mistake...” Eames deadpans. It could have been Arthur’s imagination, but it appears that a hardness glints in Eames’ eyes and an edginess has seeped into his voice.

“I have no idea what I was thinking that night. I mean…” Actually, Arthur did have an idea what he thought that night, it took him a moment, but in the end he said so as much. “I took advantage of you.”

“You took advantage of me?” The sharpness in Eames’ features recedes, replaced by a tinge incredulous. It was as if that thought had barely even crossed his mind. 

“You had a lot to process at that time, and I shouldn’t have made any advances towards you. It was unprofessional,” Arthur admits with a wince at his own words. Him acting out on his attraction to Eames where that man had edged so close to limbo, had been harassment. Plain and simple. 

By now Eames’ brows had climbed so far up his forehead, that Arthur immediately realizes how wrong his earlier statement had been. “I was referring to myself of course. Being unprofessional,” he adds hastily. “I understand if you feel uncomfortable to continue in our partnership. And if need to, I can submit for a transfer request. In fact I think I should speak to Saito about this now,” he turns on his heels, retreating from the room as quick as possible as if he’s fleeing from a battle. But even as he strides towards Saito’s office, he couldn’t shake the impression of the surprise and disgust on Eames’ face. He knew then he’d ruin any chances of a potential friendship. 

“Hey, hey watch where you are going,” Mal ducks, holding her cup away from her blouse as its content swirls menacing, threatening to spill, but eventually settle. She looks up then, doing a double take when she finally takes in Arthur’s frazzled expression. “Oh I didn’t realize it’s already today.” Then with incredible speed, the precog places her cup on the desk and pinches Arthur by his cheek. As he squawks with pain, she pops a mint into his mouth and shuts his jaw with a not so gentle shove to his chin. “Here you go lover boy. No thanks needed.” 

“Mal! What the… ” 

A door slams open loud behind him then and just as sudden, a hand on his shoulder twirls him around, bringing him face to face with a very flustered looking Eames. “Will you be free Saturday evening?” The man asks. 

“Saturday?” Arthur repeats, unsure where this unexpected line of question came from as he nods blankly.

“Good,” the psych says, breaking out in a blinding smile. “Go on a date with me?”

For a moment Arthur thought his painkiller had played a trick on him, until he remembers that he had yet to take any for the day. “Come again?” he says as Eames grins at his puzzled expression. “That night at the hotel, it wasn’t just you,” the psych says and Arthur could feels his brows shooting up close to what must have been his hairline. “I think I may not have make it clear that night. So now this is me, being extremely unprofessional and making what’s obviously an advance on you. So please - ” He says, voice dropping a notch lower as he leans into Arthur’s space. “Say yes.”

Later Mal would swear that Arthur had squeaked his answer. But in that infinity of a second, Arthur could only recall twinkling blue eyes, the soft press of chaste lips against his, and the ghostly touch of breath whispers close to skin. “Mmm mint… ”  

There’s a snicker beside him. And Arthur pulls back with a snap, frowning to find Mal watching them intently with an innocent expression as she slurps on her latte loudly.

“I will be picking you up then,” Eames presses a kiss on his ear and saunters away with a wink, high-fiving Ariadne, who has her hand up, when Eames walks past her desk. Through the glass panel of his office, Arthur could see Saito, still on his call, looking at him pointedly and giving him a thumbs up. 

As he stares at the scenes all around him, wondering what had become of his life, and whether all of that had been mere figments of his hopeful imagination. Arthur could hear Mal pondering in her French tinted accent, “Like I say, one big crazy dream.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! (throw sparkles) it's finally over.  
> Btw there will be a side story of their date. most likely two weeks away.


End file.
